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* 






HE HEART OF OLD HICKORY 
AND OTHER STORIES OF 
TENNESSEE 


* 


BY WILL ALLEN DROMGOOLE 
WITH PREFACE BY 
B. O. FLOWER 



THE ARENA PUBLISHING 
CO., BOSTON, MASS. 











T2- 2 


Copyrighted, 1895, 

BY 

ARENA PUBLISHING COMPANY. 

All Rights Reserved. 





Arena Press. 












PREFACE. 


One day in the summer of 1890 I received 
a manuscript entitled “ Fiddling His Way to 
Fame,” accompanied by a brief note. Both 
were signed Will Allen Dromgoole. I read 
the sketch, and at once remarked to Mrs. 
Flower that, in my judgment, this was a 
case of the hand of Esau and the voice of 
Jacob, or, in other words, though the name 
signed was that of a man, the sketch was 
certainly the work of a woman or had been 
recast by a woman. There were certain fine 
strokes and delicate touches, in a word, a 
general atmosphere evincing a fine interior 
appreciation of the working of the human 
heart which characterizes woman’s thought 
at its best and which stamped this as the 
work of a woman. I know this view does not 
accord with the opinion held by many of my 
friends in regard to mental differentiation, 
but my experience thoroughly convinces me 
that there is a subtle quality and intuitional 

iii 


f 



IV 




power which is distinctly characteristic of 
woman, though there are men who possess 
this subtle something in a more or less 
marked degree. 

I immediately accepted the sketch, as it 
was something I wanted to lighten the pages 
of my review, and because it possessed a 
certain charm which is rare among modern 
writers, being humorous and pathetic by 
turns, wonderfully true to life, and yet free 
from the repulsive elements so often present 
in realistic sketches. 

Since that day the brilliant little Tennes¬ 
see authoress, who bears a man’s name, but 
who is one of the most womanly of women, 
has contributed more fiction to the ARENA 
than any other writer. Her sketches have 
proved extremely popular, owing to her ar¬ 
tistic skill in bringing out the pathos and 
humor of the situations depicted, no less 
than the fidelity with which she draws her 
characters and her intense sympathy with 
humble life. She constantly reminds the 
reader of Charles Dickens, although her 
writings are free from the tendency to cari¬ 
cature and overdraw which always seems to 
me to be present in the works of the great 
English author. 


'gxtfm. 


V 


Miss Dromgoole is nothing if not a South¬ 
erner, and her love of the South is only 
surpassed by the affection she feels for the 
mountains and valleys of her dear old Ten¬ 
nessee. She is a woman of conviction and 
possesses the spirit of our era in a large de¬ 
gree. No one familiar with her work during 
the past four years can fail to note how 
steadily her views have broadened and how 
rapidly popular prejudice has given place to 
that broad and justice-loving spirit which is 
so needed in modern life, and which enables 
its possessor to rise above petty prejudice 
or unreasoning conventionalism when con¬ 
science speaks to the soul. 

Miss Dromgoole has had a hard life in 
more ways than one. It has been a constant 
struggle. It was not until after the death 
of her mother, who had ever encouraged 
and believed in her, that she began to write 
for the public. That was about nine years 
ago. With the death of her mother the 
home was broken up, and the loss of the 
dearest friend and counsellor to a nature so 
intense as hers, and the necessity of earning 
a living, led her to carry out her mother’s 
oft-expressed wish and write for publication. 
Her first ambitious attempt won a prize 


VI 


fgtrtm. 


offered by the Youth’s Companion , and that 
journal and other publications accepted 
many of her stories. “ But,” to quote from 
her own words, “ it was not until ‘ Fiddling 
His Way to Fame ’ appeared in the ARENA 
that I suddenly found myself famous, and 
since then I have had more orders for work 
than I have been able to fill.” 

As the personality of a famous writer is 
always interesting, I propose to give a brief 
descriptive sketch of the little woman of 
whom the South has just reason to be proud 
before speaking of this book. She is small 
of stature, fragile in appearance, intense in 
her nature, and of a highly-strung nervous 
organism. I seldom care to dwell on the 
ancestry of an individual, as I think that 
sort of thing has been greatly overdone, and 
I believe with Bulwer that “ not to the past 
but to the future looks true nobility, and 
finds its blazon in posterity.” And yet the 
ancestry of an individual may sometimes 
prove a helpful and interesting study. I 
have frequently noticed in the writings of 
authors who exhibit great versatility, no less 
than in the lives of individuals who seem to 
present strikingly contradictory phases of 
character, the explanation of these phenom- 




vii 

ena in their ancestry. In the case of Miss 
Dromgoole we find an interesting illustration 
of this nature. Her great-grandfather 
Edward Dromgoole emigrated from Sligo, 
Ireland ; as he had accepted the tenets of 
Protestantism and his people were strong 
Catholics, it was unpleasant for him to 
longer remain in his native land. He be¬ 
came a prominent pioneer Methodist minister 
in Virginia. One of his sons, a well-known 
orator, represented the Petersburg district 
in congress. Her maternal grandfather was 
of Danish extraction, while her great-grand¬ 
mother on her father’s side was an English¬ 
woman, and her great-grandfather on the 
mother’s side married a French lady. Here 
we have the mingling of Irish, Danish, Eng¬ 
lish, and French blood, with some striking 
characteristics of each of these peoples ap¬ 
pearing perceptibly in the person and works 
of Miss Dromgoole. Though sh£ repudiates 
the English * in her blood, her sturdy loyalty 
to high principles and an ethical strength 
wedded to a certain seriousness, almost sad- 

* In a personal letter Miss Dromgoole says : “ I do not 
know what I am. I claim the Irish and the French. I 
feel the Danish blood in my veins at times, but the cold 
blood of the English I repudiate.” 


gxtfm. 


viii 

ness, strongly suggest the Anglo-Saxon at 
its best. She has the Irish keen sense of 
humor, which is seen in her writings and 
lectures, no less than in her conversation. 
The energy and determination together with 
the persistency of the Dane, and some of the 
bright and versatile characteristics of the 
French, are evident in her life and work, 
although there is a strong tendency to dwell 
too much on the gloomy side of life which 
even the Irish humor and the cheerful quali¬ 
ties of the French blood have not overcome. 
This is due I think largely to the blow occa¬ 
sioned by the death of her mother and the 
terrible struggle which has marked her life, 
and which has been waged against adversity 
with much the same sense of loyalty to right 
as marked the Roundheads in their conflicts 
with King Charles I. 

Her parents, John E. Dromgoole and 
Rebecca Mildred Blanch, after marriage, 
moved from Brunswick County, Virginia, 
to Tennessee. Miss Dromgoole was born in 
Murfreesboro, in the last-named state, and 
graduated from the Female Academy of 
Clarksville, Tennessee. For several years 
she was engrossing clerk for the senate of 
Tennessee. During recent years she has 


gwfaw. 


IX 


spent much of her time in Boston and New 
York, where she has been warmly welcomed 
and has many sincere admirers among those 
who appreciate genius and sterling worth. 

The present volume illustrates the author’s 
power and versatility in a forcible manner, 
and will prove a valuable addition to the 
literature of genuine merit from the pens of 
Southern writers. The first sketch, “The 
Heart of Old Hickory,” is, in my judgment, 
one of the finest short stories of the present 
generation. It has proved unusually popu¬ 
lar, and displays the wonderful power of its 
gifted author in blending humor and pathos, 
while investing with irresistible fascination 
a sketch which, in the hands of any other 
than an artist, would appear tame and in¬ 
sipid. It is a masterpiece in its way, and 
like all her writings deals largely with the 
hopes, sorrows, aspirations, and tragedies of 
the common life in Tennessee. I think it 
also will convince all readers that the author 
might have made a great success as an ad¬ 
vocate before a jury had she chosen law 
instead of literature for her professsion. 
“ Fiddling His Way to Fame” is a unique 
and most delightful sketch, in which ex- 
Governor Taylor again figures conspicu- 


X 


gvtfm. 


ously. “A Wonderful Experience Meet¬ 
ing” and “Who Broke Up de Meetin’?” 
are true to the present-day negro dialect. 
Unlike many persons who essay this field of 
literature, Miss Dromgoole never overdoes 
the dialect, and those familiar with the ver¬ 
nacular as spoken in Tennessee and Ken¬ 
tucky will recognize the absolute fidelity to 
the requirements which characterizes these 
amusing and faithful sketches. They are 
in her happiest vein, and are extremely well 
written. “Rags” is a pathetic picture of 
the street-gamin life, showing the strength 
of our author when she paints in sombre 
hues. 

“The Heart of the Woods” is in many 
respects strikingly unlike the other stories. 
Through it flows a strain of supernormalism 
which is rarely found in the writings of our 
Southern authors. In many ways it is one 
of Miss Dromgoole’s best productions, and 
illustrates anew the versatility of the author. 
Perchance the manes of some of her Norse 
ancestors may have been about her when 
she penned the sombre but fascinating crea¬ 
tion “ The Heart of the Woods.” 

In “ Ole Logan’s Courtship” we come out 
again into the sunshine, as here we find 


gfwfar*. 


XI 


humor predominating. This sketch, like 
most of Miss Dromgoole’s short stories, is 
taken from life. The bases of her best 
sketches have been actual occurrences, which, 
however, required the subtle power of the 
true artist to make others see and feel the 
life, with its sunshine and shadows, in the 
scenes depicted. The play of Hamlet, it will 
be remembered, existed before Shakespeare’s 
time ; but it was the immortal bard of the 
Avon who breathed into it the breath of 
life, such as comes only from the imagina¬ 
tion of a genius, and lo! the mannikin was 
imbued with life. 

In “ Christmas Eve at the Corner Grocery ” 
we are strongly reminded of the Dickens 
quality in the writings of our author, with¬ 
out the slightest suggestion of imitation. 
This sketch has proved unusually popular 
as a recitation at Christmas entertainments, 
and almost ranks with “The Heart of Old 
Hickory ” in popularity with public readers. 
It is a charming story to be read at any 
time, but especially appropriate for the holi¬ 
days. 

I believe that this volume will take a high 
place among the meritorious works of mod¬ 
ern Southern authors. Tennessee has just 


xii 


§vttm. 


reason to be proud of the little authoress 
who has depicted so many phases of humble 
life within her borders with such fidelity, 
such delicacy, and such rare pathos and 
humor. 


B. 0. FLO WEB. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Preface. iii 

The Heart of Old Hickory. 5 

Fiddling His Way to Fame. 39 

A Wonderful Experience Meeting. 73 

Who Broke Up de Meet’n’ ?. 89 

Rags. 104 

Ole Logan’s Courtship. 133 

The Heart of the Woods. 137 

Christmas Eve at the Corner Grocery. 183 
























































































* • ’ • ' ♦ * 








. . , 






















































THE HEART OF OLD HICKORY. 


Noiselessly, dreamily, with that sugges¬ 
tion of charity which always lingers about a 
snowstorm, fell the white flakes down, in the 
arms of the gray twilight. There was an 
air of desolation about the grim old State 
House, as, one by one, the great doors 
creaked the departure of the various 
occupants of the honorable old pile that over¬ 
looks the city and the sluggish sweep of the 
Cumberland beyond. The last loitering feet 
came down the damp corridors; the rustle 
of a woman’s skirts sent a kind of ghostly 
rattle through the shadowy alcoves. 

The Governor heard the steps and the 
rustle of the stiff bombazine skirts, and 
wondered, in a vague way, why it was that 


/ 



&\xc genrt of (Old hickory* 


women would work beyond the time they 
bargained for. The librarian was always 
the last to leave, except the Governor himself. 
He had heard her pass that door at dusk, 
day in, day out, for two years, and always 
after the others were gone. He never felt 
quite alone in the empty State House until 
those steps had passed by. This evening, 
however, they stopped, and he looked up 
inquiringly as the knob was carefully turned, 
and the librarian entered the executive office. 

“ I only stopped to say a word for the 
little hunchback’s mother, : ” she said. “ She 
is not a bad woman, and her provocation was 
great. Moreover, she is a woman” 

He remembered the words long after the 
librarian had gone. 

“ She is a woman” That was a strange 
plea to advance for a creature sentenced to 
the gallows. He sighed, and again took up 
the long roll of paper lying upon his desk. 

“ Inasmuch as she was sorely wronged, 


©to of 7 

beaten, tortured by seeing her afflicted child 
ill-treated, we, the undersigned, do beg of 
your excellency all charity and all leniency 
compatible with the laws of the State, and 
the loftier law of mercy.” 

Oh, that was an old story; yet it read well, 
too, that old, old petition with that old, old 
plea— charity . Five hundred names were 
signed to it; and yet, thrice five hundred 
tongues would lash him if he set his own 
name there. It was a hard thing,—to hold 
life in his hand and refuse it. Those old 
threadbare stories, old as pain itself, had 
well-nigh wrought his ruin; his political 
ruin. At least the papers said as much ; 
they had sneeringly nicknamed him “ Tender- 
heart,” and compared him, with a sneer, too, 
to that old sterling hero—the Governor’s 
eyes sought the east window, where the 
statue of Andrew Jackson loomed like a 
bronze giant amid the snowflakes and the 
gathering twilight. They had compared 


m of mil licfconj. 


them, the old hero who lived in bronze, and 
the young human-heart who had no “ back¬ 
bone/’ and was moved by a rogue’s cry. 

Yet, he had loved that majestic old statue 
since the day he entered the executive office 
as chief ruler of the State, and had fancied 
for a moment the old hero was welcoming 
him into her trust and highest honor, as he 
sat astride his great steed with his cocked 
hat lifted from the head that had indeed 
worn “ large honors.” But he had been so 
many times thrust into his teeth, he could 
almost wish— 

“ Papers ! Papers! wanter paper, mis¬ 
ter?” 

A thin little face peered in at the door, a 
face so old, so strangely unchildlike, he 
wondered for an instant what trick of pain’s 
had fastened that knowing face of a man 
upon the misshapen body of a child. 

“Yes,” said the Executive, “I want a 
Banner ♦” 


©lie *§mt uf ©Id IprkMtp 


9 


The boy had bounded forward, as well as 
a dwarfed foot would allow, at the welcome 
“ Yes,” but stopped midway the apartment, 
and slowly shook his head at the remainder 
of the sentence, while an expression, part 
jubilance, part regret, and altogether disgust, 
crossed his little old-young face. 

“ Don’t sell that sort, mister,” said he, 
“ none o’ our club don’t. It’s—low-lived.” 

The Governor smiled, despite his hard day 
with the critics and the petition folk. 

“What? You don’t sell the Evening 
Banner , the only independent journal in the 
city?” 

The newsboy was a stranger to sar¬ 
casm. 

“ That’s about the size on’t,” he said as he 
edged himself, a veritable bundle of tatters, 
a trifle nearer the red coals glowing in the 
open grate. 

Suddenly, the Executive remembered that 
it was cold. There were ridges of snow on 


10 fjtawt of (DUt ptfconj. 

the bronze statue at the window. He no¬ 
ticed, too, the movement of the tatters to¬ 
ward the fire, and with his hand, a very 
white, gentle-seeming hand it was, motioned 
the little vagabond toward the grate. No 
sooner did he see the thin, numb fingers 
stretched toward the blaze than he re¬ 
membered the sneers of “ the only independ¬ 
ent journal.” It was not far from right, 
surely, when it called him “ soft-hearted,” 
was this boycotted Banner which the news¬ 
boys refused to handle. The Executive 
smiled; the boycott, at all events, was 
comical. 

“ And so,” said he, “ you refuse to sell 
the Banner. Why is that ? ” 

“ Shucks!” was the reply. “ ’Taint no 
good. None o’ us likes it. Yer see, cully 

-” The Executive started ; but a glance 

at the earnest, unconscious face convinced 
him the familiarity was not intentional dis¬ 
respect. “ You see,” the boy went on, “ it 



©toe mi of Uktoanj. 


11 


sez mean things, tells lies, yer know, about 
a friend o’ mine. ,, 

One foot, the shorter, withered member, 
was thrust dangerously near to the glowing 
coalbed; the little gossip was making him¬ 
self thoroughly at home. The Executive 
observed it, and smiled. He also noted the 
weary droop of the shoulders, and impuls¬ 
ively pointed to a seat. He only meant 
something upon which to rest himself, and 
did not notice, until the tatters dropped 
wearily into the purple luxuriance, that he 
had invited the little Arab to a seat in a 
great, deep armchair of polished cherry, 
richly upholstered with royal purple 
plush, finished with a fringe of tawny 
gold. 

Instinctively, he glanced toward the east 
window. The bronze face wore a solemn, 
sturdy frown, hut on the tip of the great 
general’s cocked hat a tiny sparrow had 
perched, and stood coquettishly picking at 


12 glmt of 014 Ittcfeflnj, 

the white snowflakes that fell upon the bronze 
brim. 

“ And so the Banner abuses your friend ? ” 

The Executive turned again to the tatters, 
cosily ensconced in the soft depths of the 
State’s purple. The old-young head nodded. 

“ And what does it say of him ? ” 

He wondered if it could abuse any one 
quite so soundly and so mercilessly as it 
had dealt with him. 

“ Aw, slier ! ” the tatters, in state, was 
growing contemptuous. u It called him a 
c mugwump’ ” 

The Governor colored; it had said the 
same of him. 

“ An’,” the boy went on, “ it said ez ther’ 
wa’n’t no backbone to him, an’ ez he wuz 
only fitten to set the pris’ners loose, an’ to 
play the fiddle. An’ it said a lot about a 

feller named Ole Poplar-” 

“ What! ” 

The smile upon the Governor’s lips gave 



m 1 mt of mu fidwttj. 


13 


place to a hearty laugh, as the odd little 
visitor ransacked the everglades of memory 
for the desired timber from which heroes are 
hewn. 

“ Poplar ? Ben’t it poplar ? Naw, 
cedar,—ash, wonnut, hick’ry—that’s it ! 
Hick’ry. Ole Hick’ry. It said a lot about 
him; an’ it made the boys orful mad, an’ 
they won’t sell the nasty paper.” 

The tatters began to quiver with the ex¬ 
citement of the recital. The little old-young 
face lost something of its patient, premature 
age while the owner rehearsed the misdoings 
of the city’s independent afternoon journal. 

The Executive listened with a smile of 
amused perplexity. Evidently lie was the 
“ friend” referred to, else the journal had 
said the same of two parties. 

“ Who is your friend ? ” he asked vaguely 
wondering as to what further developments 
he might expect. 

“ Aw,” said the boy, “ he ain’t my friend 


14 


®\u n mt 0f m& lirtumj. 


perzactly. He’s Skinny’s though, an’ all the 
hoys stan’s up for Skinny.” 

“ And who is ‘ Skinny ’ ? ” 

A flash of contempt shot from the small, 
deep-set eyes. 

“ Say, cully,” his words were slow and 
emphatic, 6 ‘ wher’ wuz you raised ? Don’t 
you know Skinny?” 

The Executive shook his head. “ Is he 
a newsboy ? ” 

“ He wuz —” the tatters were still a 
moment, only a twitch of the lips and a 
slight, choking movement of the throat told 
the boy was struggling with his emotions. 
Then the rough, frayed sleeve was drawn 
across the bundle of papers strapped across 
his breast, where a tear glistened upon the 
front page of the Evening Herald. “ He 
wuz a newsboy—till yistiddy. We buried 
uv him yistiddy.” 

The momentary silence was broken only 
by the soft click of the clock telling the 


gUart of 0U1 gfictay. 


15 


run of time. It was the Governor who spoke 
then. “ And this man whom the Banner 
abuses was Skinny’s friend.” 

u Yes. This here wuz Skinny’s route. 
I took it yistiddy. Yer see Skinny didn’t 
have no mammy an’ no folks, an’ no meat 
onter his bones,—that’s why we all named 
him Skinny. He wuz jest b-o-n-z-e-s. An’ 
tlier’ wuz nobody ter keep keer uv him when 
he wuz sick, an’ he jest up an’ died.” 

Without the window the snow fell softly, 
softly. The little brown bird hopped down 
from the great general’s hat and sought 
shelter in the bronze bosom of his fluted 
vesture. Poor little snowbird !—the human 
waif which the newsboys had buried—for 
him the bronze bosom of Charity had 
offered no shelter from the storm. The 
tatters in velvet had forgotten the cold, and 
the presence before him, as he gazed into the 
dreamful warmth of the fire. He did not 
see the motion of the Governor’s hand across 


16 


m of m f \tux%. 


his eyes, nor did he know how the great man 
was rehearsing the Banner’s criticisms. 

“ He cannot hear a beggar’s tale without 
growing chicken-hearted and opening the 
prison doors to every red-handed murderer 
confined there who can put up a pretty 
story.” 

He was soft-hearted; he knew it, and 
regretted it many times to the bronze 
general at the window. But this evening 
there was a kind of defiance about him; he 
was determined to dare the old warrior- 
statesman, and the slanderous Banner —and 
his own “ chicken-heart,” too. 

“ Tell me,” said he, “ about this friend of 
Skinny’s.” 

“The Gov’ner?” 

“ Was it the Governor ? ” 

“ Say ! ” Oh, the scorn of those young 
eyes! “ Is ther’ anybody else can pardon 

out convicts ? In course ’twuz the Gov’ner. 
Skinny had a picture uv him, too. A great 


of (DUl Itictaj). 17 

big un, an’ golly ! but ’twuz pritty. Rep’ 
it hangin , over his cot what Nickerson, the 
p’liceman ez ain’t got no folks neither, like 
Skinny, let him set up in a corner o’ his 
room down ter Black Bottom. Say, cully, 
does you know the Gov’ner?” 

“ Yes ; but go on with your story. Tell 
me all about Skinny and- his friend ! ” 

The tatters settled back into the purple 
cushions. The firelight played upon the 
little old face, and the heat drew the damp¬ 
ness from the worn clothes, enveloping the 
thin figure in a vapor that might have been 
a poetic dream-mist but for the ragged 
reality slowly thawing in the good warmth. 
The bundle of papers had been lifted from 
the sunken chest and placed carefully by on 
the crimson and olive rug, while the human 
bundle settled itself to tell the story of 
Skinny. 

“ Me an’ him wuz on the pris’n route,” 
said he, u till—yistiddy. Least I wuz ther 



18 


©he geart of (!)I4 Hiefcanj. 


till yistiddy. Skinny tuk this route last 
year. He begged it fur me when he—come 
ter quit, because I ben’t ez strong ez— 
Solermun, you know. Wa’n’t he the strong 
un ? Solermun or Merthuslem, I git mixed 
in them bible fellers. But ’twuz when we 
wuz ter the pris’n route I larnt about 
Skinny’s friend, the Gov’ner, you know. 
First ther’ was ole Jack Nasby up an’ got 
parelized, an’ w’an’t no ’count ter nobody, 
let ’lone ter the State. ‘ A dead expense,’ 
the ward’n said. He suffered orful, too, an’ 
so’d his wife. An’ one day Skinny said he 
wuz goin’ ter write a pertition an’ git all 
the ’fishuls ter sign it, an’ git the Gov’ner 
ter pard’n ole Nasby out. They all signed 
it—one o’ the convic’s writ it, but they all 
told Skinny ez ’twuz no use, ’cause he 
wouldn’t do it. An’ one day, don’t yer 
think when ole Nasby wuz layin’ on the 
hospittul bunk with his dead side kivered 
over with a pris’n blankit, an’ his wife a- 


19 


Dkwt of <*M 

cryin’ becase the ward’ll war ’bleeged ter 
lock her out, the Gov’ner his se’f walked 
in. An’ what yer reckin he done ? Cried ! 
What yer think o’ that, cully ? Cried; 
an’ lowed ez how ‘ few folks wuz so bad 
et somebody didn’t keer fur ’em,’ an’ 
then he called the man’s wife back, an’ 
p’inted ter the half dead ole convic’, an’ told 
her ter ‘ fetch him home.’ Did! An’ the 
nex’ day if the Banner didn’t tan him! 
Yer jest bet it did. 

“ An’ ther’ wuz a feller tlier’ been in 
twenty year, an’ had seventy-nine more 
ahead uv him. An’ one night when ther’ 
wa’n’t nobody thinkin’ uv it, he up an’ got 
erligion. An’ he ain’t no more en got it, 
en he wants ter git away fum ther’. Prayed 
fur it constant: ‘ Lord, let me out! ’ 6 Lord, 

let me out! ’ That’s what he ud say ez he 
set on the spoke pile fittin’ spokes fur the 
Tennessee wagins; an’ a-cryin’ all the time. 
He couldn’t take time ter cry an’ pray ’thout 


20 


©hr Jtot of (?)Id iucfetrnj. 


cheat’n’ o’ the State, yer know, so he jest 
cried an’ prayed while he worked. The 
other pris’ners poked fun at him ; an’ tol’ 
him if he got out they ud try erligion in 
theirn. Yorter seen him ; he avuz a good 
un. Spec’ yer have heerd about him. Did 
yer heear ’bout the big fire that bruk out in 
the pris’n las’ November, did yer ? ” 

The Governor nodded and the boy talked 
on. 

“Well, that ther’ convic’ worked orful 
hard at that fire. He fetched thirteen men 
out on his back. They wuz suf’cated, yer 
know. He fetched the warden out, too, in 
his arms. An’ one uv his arms wuz burnt 
that bad it had ter be cut off. An’ the 
pris’n doctor said he breathed fire inter his 
lungs or somethin’. An’ the next day the 
Gov’ner pard’ned uv him out. I wuz ther’ 
when the pard’n come. The warden’s voice 
trim’led when he read it ter the feller layin’ 
bundled up on his iron bunk. An’ when he 


Ifoart irf 21 

heeard it he riz up in bed an’ sez he, ‘ My 
prayers is answered; tell the boys/ The 
warden bent over ’im ez he dropped back an’ 
shet his eyes, an’ tried ter shake him up. 
‘ What must I tell the Gov’ner f ’ sez he. 
6 Tell him, God bless him/ AiT that wuz 
the las’ word he ever did say topside o’ this 
earth. Whatcher think o’ that, cully ? 
’Bout ez big ez the Banner’s growl, wa’n’t 
it?” 

The Executive nodded again, while the 
little gossip of the slums talked on in his 
quaint, old way, of deeds the very angels 
must have wept to witness, so full were they 
of glorious humanity. 

“ But the best uv all wuz about ole Bemis,” 
said he, re-arranging his tatters so that the 
undried portion might be turned to the 
fire. “ Bid you ever heear about ole 
Bemis ? ” 

Did he ? W ould he ever cease to hear 
about him, he wondered. Was there, coidd 


22 


®hc gjtawt of (?)I4 JUcfeonj. 


there be any excuse for him there? The 
evening Independent thought not. Yet he 
felt some curiosity to know how his “ chicken- 
hearted foolishness ” had been received in 
the slums, so he motioned the boy to go on. 
Yerily the tattered gossip had never had so 
rapt a listener. 

“ Yer see/’ said he, “ Bemis wuz a banker; 
a reg’lar rich un. He kilt a man,—kilt him 
dead, too,—an’ yer see, cully, ’twas his own 
son-in-law. An’ one cote went dead against 
him, an’ they fetched it ter t’other, ‘ s’preme ’ 
or ‘ sperm,’ or somethin’. An’ the Banner 
said ‘ he orter be hung, an’ would be if the 
Guv’ner’d let him. But if he’d cry a little 
the Guv’ner’d set him on his feet again, 
when the cotes wuz done with him.’ But 
that cote said he mus’ hang, too, an’ they 
put him in jail; an’ befo’ they had the trial, 
the jailer looked fur a mob ter come an’ 
take him out at night an’ hang him. He 
set up late lookin’ fur it. But stid uv a 


Seatt of gkfconp 


23 


mob, the jailer lieerd a little pitapat on the 
steps, an’ a little rattle uv the door, an’ when 
he opened uv it ther’ wuz a little lame 
cripple girl standin’ ther’ leaniiT on her 
crutches a-cryin’, an’ a-beggin , ter see her 
pappy. Truth, cully; cross my heart ” 
(and two small fingers drew the sign of the 
cross upon the little gossip’s breast). 
“ Atter that, folks begin ter feel sorry fur 
the ole banker, when the jailer ’d tell about 
the little crutch ez sounded up’n down them 
jail halls all day. The pris’ners got ter 
know it, an’ ter wait fur it, an’ they named 
uv her 6 crippled angul,’ she wuz that white 
an’ pritty, with her blue eyes, an’ hair like 
tumbled-up sunshine all round her face. 
When the pris’ners heerd the restle uv her 
little silk dress breshin’ the banisters ez she 
clomb upstairs, they ud say, ‘ Ther’s the 
little angul’s wings.’ An’ they said the jail 
got more darker after the wings went by. 
An’ when they had that ther’ las’ trial uv ole 


24 


m (DIA gfofeotjj. 


Bemis, lots o’ meanness leaked out ez had 
been done him, an’ it showed ez the pris’ner 
wa’n’t so mightily ter blame atter all. An’ 
lots of folks wuz hopin’ the ole man ud be 
plumb cleared. But the cote said he mus’ 
hang, hang, hang. Did ; an’ when it said 
so the angul fell over in her pappy’s arms, 
an’ her crutch rolled down an’ lay aginst the 
judge’s foot, an’ he picked it up an’ belt it in 
his hail’ all the time he wuz saying o’ the 
death sentence. 

“ An’ the Banner said * that wuz enough 
fur chicken-heart,’—an’ said ever’body might 
look fur a pard’n nex’ day. An’ then 
whatcher reckin ? What do yer reckin, 
cully? The nex’ day down come a little 
yaller-headed gal ter the jail a-kerryin uv a 
pard’n. Whatcher think o’ that ? Wuz 
that chicken heart? Naw, cully, that wuz 
grit. Skinny said so. An’ Skinny said,— 
he wuz alius hangin’ roun’ the cap’tul,—an’ 
he heerd the men talkin’ ’bout it. An’ they 


25 


©lie f mt of ma Sicfcovy. 

said the little gal come up ter see the Gov’¬ 
ner, an’ he wouldn’t see her at first. But 
she got in at last, an’ begged an’ begged 
fur the ole man ’bout ter hang. 

“ But the Gov’ner wouldn’t lis’n, till all’t 
once she turned ter him an’ sez she, ‘ Have 
you got a chile ? ’ An’ his eyes hit up in a 
minute, an’ sez he, ‘ One, at Mount Olivet.’ 
That’s the graveyard, yer know. Then he 
called his sec’t’ry man, an’ whispered ter 
him. An’ the man sez, ‘ Is it wise ? ’ An’ 
then the Gov’ner stood up gran’ like, an’ sez 
he, ‘ Hit’s right; an’ that’s enough.’ Wa’n’t 
that bully, though ? Wa’n’t it ? Say, cully, 
whatcher think o’ that ? An’ whatcher 
lookin’ at out the winder ? ” 

The shadows held the tall warrior in a 
dusky mantle. Was it fancy, or did old 
Hickory indeed lift his cocked hat a trifle 
higher ? Old bronze hero, did he, too, hear 
that click of a child’s crutch echoing down the 
dismal corridors of the grim old State House, 


26 


©hr g $mt of Old gjirhonj. 


as the little, misshapen feet sped upon their 
last hope ? And in his dreams did he too 
hear, the Executive wondered, the cry of a 
little child begging life of him who alone 
held it ? Did he hear the wind, those long 
December nights, moaning over Olivet with 
the sob of a dead babe in its breath ? Did 
he understand the human, as well as the 
heroic, old warrior-statesman whose immor¬ 
tality was writ in bronze ? 

“ Say, cully,” the tatters grew restless again, 
“ does the firelight hurt yer eyes, makes ’em 
water ? They looks like the picture o’ 
Skinny’s man when the water’s in ’em so. 
Oh, but hit’s a good picture. It’s a man, 
layin’ in bed. Sick or somethin’, I reckin.’ 
An’ his piller’s all ruffled up, an’ the kiverlid 
all white ez snow. An’ his face has got a 
kind o’ glory look, jest like yer see on the 
face o’ the pris’n chaplin when he’s a-prayin’ 
with his head up, an’ his eyes shet tight, an’ 
a streak o’ sunshine comes a-creepin’ in 


©he Ueavt of #14 giehary. 


27 


through the gratin’ uv the winders an’ 
strikes acrost his face. That’s the way 
Skinny’s picture man looks, only ther’ ain’t 
no bars, an’ the light stays ther’. An’ in 
one corner is a big, big patch o’ light. ’Tain’t 
sunshine, too soft. An’ ’tain’t moonlight, too 
bright. Hit’s dest light. An’ plumb square 
in the middle uv it is a angul: a gal angul, 
I reckin, becase its orful pretty, with goldish 
hair, an’ eyes ez blue ez—that cheer yer 
head’s leaned on. An’ she has a book, a 
gold un ; whatcher think o’ that ? An she’s 
writin’ down names in it. An’ the man in 
the bed is watchin’ uv her, an’ tellin’ uv her 
what ter do; for down ter the bottom tiler’s 
some gol’-writin’. Skinny figgered it out 
an’ it said, 6 Write me as one who loves his 
fellow-men .’ Ain’t that scrumptious ? Yer 
jest bet. 

u I asked Skinny once what it meant, and 
he said he didn’t know fur plumb certain, 
but sez he, ‘ I calls it the Gov’ner, Skip: the 


28 


©ho Jjtat of Oht Ipctey. 


Gov’ner an’ the crippled angul.’ Atter that 
Skinny an’ me an’ the boys alius called it the 
Gov’ner. Say ! did you ever see the Gov’- 
ner ? ” 

The Executive nodded; and the tatters 
rising and sinking back again with vehemence 
in accord with surprise, threatened to leave 
more than a single mark upon the State’s 
purple. 

“ Oh, say now! did yer though ? An’ 
did he look this here way, an’ set his chin so, 
an’ keep his eyes kind o’ sliet’s if he wuz 
afeard someun ud see if he cried an’ tell the 
Banner ez ther’ wuz tears in his eyes ? 
Skinny said he did. Skinny didn’t lie, he 
didn’t. 

“ An’ did yer ever heear him make a 
speech ? Raily now, did yer ? ” 

The spare body bent forward, as if the 
sharp eyes would catch the faintest hint of 
falsehood in the face before him. u Yorter 
heerd him. Skinny did once, when he wuz 


®fte Seart of Old gfidwnj. 29 

’norgrated, yer know. An’ you bet he’s 
gran’, then, on them ’norgrat’n days. He 
jest up an’ dares the ole Banner . An’ his 
speeches goes this er way.” 

The tatters half stood; the sole of one 
torn shoe pressed against the State’s purple 
of the great easy-chair, one resting upon the 
velvet rug. One small hand lightly clasped 
the arm of the cherry chair, while the other 
was enthusiastically waved to and fro as the 
vagabond’s deft tongue told off a fragment 
of one of the Executive’s masterpieces of 
eloquence and oratory. 

“ Out of the mouths of babes and suck¬ 
lings,” indeed, poured the great particle of 
the great argument that had swept the old 
Volunteer State, at the moment of its finan¬ 
cial agony, from center to circumference: 

u 6 The so-called “ State Bonds ” are 
against the letter and spirit of the Constitu¬ 
tion of the United States, which declares, 
No State shall grant letters of marque and 


30 of mu lifted 

reprisal, coin money, or emit bills of credit. 
State bonds! State bonds! I tell you, 
friends and fellow-citizens, that is the name 
of the enemy that is hammering upon that 
mighty platform upon which all social, poli¬ 
tical, and financial affairs of the country are 
founded; the palladium of our liberties,—the 
Constitution of the United States.’ ” 

The ragged shoe slipped from its velvet 
pedestal, the now dry tatters dropped back 
into the luxuriant softness of the easy-chair. 
The glow of excitement faded from the little 
old face that seemed suddenly to grow older. 
The man watching with keen surprise, that 
was indeed almost wonder, saw the boy’s thin 
lips twitch nervously. The great speech was 
forgotten in the mighty memories it had 
stirred. The tattered sleeve was drawn across 
the face that was tattered too, and it was 
full two minutes by the State’s bronze clock, 
before the vagabond held control of his feel- 


©to Ifart of gflrfeory. 31 

“ Say ! ” he ventured again, “ yorter 
knowed Skinny. He wuz the nicest hoy 
yevver did see. He knowed ever’thing, he 
did. See the Gov’ner many a time. Heerd 
him say that very speech I’m tellin’ you 
about. In this very house, too, upstairs, 
wher’ the leguslater sets. I peeped in while 
ago ; nobody ther’ but the sextent. Skinny 
heerd the Gov’ner speak ther’ though—an’ 
when the ban’ played, an’ the folks all clap¬ 
ped their hands, Skinny flung his hat up, 
plumb inter the big chand’ler, an’ hollered 
out: ‘ Hooray for the Gov’ner an’ the Low 
Taxers ! ’ an’ a p’liceman fetched him out by 
the collar, an’ when he got out the cop sez 
ter him, sez he, ‘ Now whatcher got ter say ? ’ 
Skinny wuz a Low Taxer his own se’f, so 
when the cop axed him for his say, he flung 
his hat up todes the bare-headed Liberty 
woman out ther’ at the front door, an’ sez 
he, ‘ Hooray! fur the Gov’ner an’ the Low 
Tax party.’ Did. He slep’ in the lock-up 


32 ©he fteart of (i)Ut Siehoey, 

that night fur it, you bet; but he got his 
holler. He wuz a plumb good un. 

“ Say, cully! I wisht yer could see 
Skinny’s picture anyhow. It’s over ter 
hunchback Harry’s house now, t’other side o’ 
Hell’s Half. Yer know Hell’s Half acre? 
Awful place. Skinny give the picture ter 
Harry ’count o’ his not bein’ able ter git 
about much. He set a sight o’ store by it, 
Skinny did, an’ he didn’t lot it leave him till 
the las’ minit; he just willed it, yer know, 
to hunchback Harry. When he wuz a-dyin’ 
he turned ter me, an’ sez he, ‘ Skip, hang 
the Gov’ner so’s I can see him.’ An’ when 
I done it, he sez, sorter smilin’, sez he, c Skip ? ’ 
Sez I, ‘ Skinny ! ’ Sez he, ‘ The crippled 
angul has wiped all the tears out o’ the Gov’- 
ner’s eyes.’ Then he fell back on his straw 
piller an’ shet his eyes, so ; an’ after while 
he opened uv um, an’ sez he—so soft yer jest 
could a-heerd it; sez he, ‘ Write me ez one 
who loves his fellow-men.’ An’ that wuz 


®\xt $eart of ma f icfcon). 33 

the las’ word lie ever said on this earth. He 
had a nice fun’ril; yer bet. Us newsboys 
made it; an’ the pris’ii chaplin said the 
sument. We bought the flowers, us boys 
did, they cos’ ten dollars. Ther’ wuz a 
wreath made uv white roses, an’ right in the 
middle, made out o’ little teeny buds, wuz 
his name—‘ Skinny .’ The flower-man said 
it wouldn’t do, when we told him ter put it 
ther,’ but we ’lowed ’twuz our money and 
our fun’ril and if we couldn’t have it 
our way we wouldn’t have it at all. An’ he 
said it might hurt his folkses’ feelin’s ; but 
we tol’ him Skinny didn’t have no folks, an’ 
no name neither, ’cept jest ‘ Skinny.’ So he 
made up the wreath like we said, an’ it’s out 
ther’ on his grave this blessed minit, if the 
snow ain’t kivered it up. Say, cully ! Don’t 
yer be a-cryin’ fur Skinny. He’s all right— 
the chaplin sez so. The Gov’ner’d cry fur 
him though, I bet yer, if he knowed about 
the fun’ril yistiddy. Mebbe ole Pop- 
3 


34 ileavt 0f rn f itfwnj. 

Hick’ry wouldn’t, but I bet the Gov’ner 
would.” 

The face of the Executive was turned to¬ 
ward the fire—a tiny, blue blaze shot up¬ 
ward for an instant, and was reflected in a 
diamond setting that glittered upon his 
bosom. A match to the sparkling jewel 
rested a moment upon his cheek, then rolled 
down and lay upon his hand—a bright, 
glistening tear. There was a sound of heavy 
footsteps coming down the gray stone cor¬ 
ridor—a creak, a groan, and a bang. 

“ What’s that?” asked the newsboy, start¬ 
ing up. 

“That,” said the Executive, “ is the porter, 
closing up for the night.” 

The tatters stood as near upright as tatters 
may, and gathered themselves together. 
Not a paper sold; he had gossipped away 
the afternoon with right royal recklessness. 
He remembered it too late. 

“ Say ! yer wouldn’t want a Herald f ” 


TO* gtot of ®U\ girtay. 35 

It was not easy to talk business where lately 
he had talked confidence. The Executive’s 
hand sought his pocket. 

“ Yes/’ said lie, “ a Herald will do. 
What is your name, boy ? ” 

“ Skippy! ’cause I don’t skip, yer know.” 

There was a twinkle in the vagabond’s 
eye, as the maimed foot was thrust forward. 
The next moment he glanced at the coin 
the Executive had handed him. 

“ Say ! I can’t change a dollar; hain’t 
seen that much money since the bridge wuz 
burnt.” 

The Executive smiled. “ Never mind the 
change,” said he, “and be sure you bring 
me to-morrow’s Herald .” 

The tatters did stand upright at that, while 
a look of genuine wonder, not unmixed with 
admiration, came into the little old-young 
face. 

“ Say! who be you anyhow ? ” he asked. 
And the lids did “ drop,” as the Banner 


36 


m fern* of m Petal). 


said, “to hide the tears/’ as the great man 
answered slowly :— 

“ I am the Governor of Tennessee, Skip.” 

There was a low soft whistle, a hurried 
shambling toward the door, a half-whispered 
something about “ Skinny ” and “ old Pop- 
Hickory,” and the ponderous door closed 
behind him. When the fire had burned so 
low he could no longer see the print of the 
newsboy’s foot upon the velvet cushion of 
the arm-chair, the Governor arose and began 
to put away his papers. 

“ Inasmuch as she was sorely wronged ” 
—his eye fell upon a line of the woman- 
murderer’s long petition. Was this a “ case 
for clemency,” as the petition declared? 
The crisp paper rattled strangely as he un¬ 
rolled it, and fixed his own name, together 
with the great seal of the State, to the few 
words he had written. It is a grand thing 
to hold life in the hand: a thing next to 
God himself. It is a grander thing to give 


37 


m Sturt flf m& gktay. 

life, and nearer to God, too, for is not God 
the giver of all life ? The long petition lay 
in the Executive’s private drawer; his day’s 
work was done; to-morrow the despised 
afternoon journal would sum it up so: 
“ Pardoned another red-handed Cain.” The 
angels perhaps might record it something 
after this wise: “ Saved another soul from 
hell.” He sighed, and thrust the few re¬ 
maining papers into the drawer, locked it, and 
made ready to go home. For the darkness 
had indeed fallen ; the bronze statue, as he 
sought it through the window, had become 
only a part of the bronze night. But the 
heart of old Hickory was there, in his own 
bosom, throbbing and alive with the burden 
of humanity. To-morrow the critics might 
lash ; but to-night —he opened the door of 
the great gray corridor; the wind swept with 
a sepulchral groan through the vault-like 
gloom; he lifted his face to the leaden sky, 
starless and cold.—“ Write me,” he said, 


38 ©he 3*eart of (?)Ut glirkory. 

a as one who loves his fellow-men; ” and 
blushed, as any hero might, to find his heart 
as brave as its convictions. 


FIDDLING HIS WAY TO FAME. 


We had fallen in with a party of Alabama 
boys, and all having the same end in view, 
—a good time,—we joined forces and pitched 
our tents on the hank of the Clinch, the 
prettiest stream in Tennessee, and set about 
enjoying ourselves after our own approved 
fashion. 

Even the important-looking gentleman, 
sitting over against a crag where he had 
dozed and smoked for a full hour, forgot, 
for the nonce, that he was other than wit and 
wag for the company; the jolly good fel¬ 
low he, the free man (once more), and the 
huntsman. 

Our division had followed the hounds 

since sun-up ; the remainder of the company 

39 



40 


JittdUng \\\$ Way to Jiamr. 


were still out upon the river with rod and 
line. The sun was about ready to drop be¬ 
hind Lone Mountain, that solitary peak, of 
nobody knows precisely what, that keeps a 
kind of solemn guard upon the wayward 
little current singing at its base. Suppei 
was ready; the odor of coffee, mingled with 
a no loss agreeable aroma of broiling bacon, 
and corn cake, was deliciously tantalizing to 
a set of weary hunters. But we were to 
wait for the boys, that was one of our rules, 
always observed. The sun set, and twilight 
came on with that subtle light that is half 
gloom, half grandeur, and mingled, or tried 
to, with the red glare of the camp-fire. 

While we sat there, dozing and waiting, 
there was a break in the brush below the 
bluff upon which we were camped. “ A 
deer! ” One of the boys reached for his 
rifle, just as a tall, gaunt figure appeared 
above the bluff, catching as he came at the 
sassafras and hazel bushes, pulling himself 


JutiUing his Way to Jam*. 41 

up until he stood among us a very Saul in 
height, and a Goliath, to all seeming, in 
strength. 

He took in the camp, the fire, and the 
group at a glance. But the figure over 
against the crag caught his best attention. 
There was a kind of telegraphic recognition 
of some description, for the giant smiled and 
nodded. 

u Howdye,” he said ; and our jolly com¬ 
rade took his pipe from between his lips and 
returned the salutation in precisely the same 
tone in which it was given. 

u Howdye ; be you-uns a-t ravelin’ ? ” 

The giant nodded, and passed on, and the 
figure of our comrade dropped back against 
the crag, and returned to his pipe. But a 
smile played about his lips, as if some very 
tender recollection had been stirred by the 
passing of the gaunt stranger. 

It was one of the Alabama boys who 
broke the silence that had fallen upon us. 


42 Jiddling to Wag to Jam*. 

He had observed the sympathetic recognition 
that passed between the two men, and had 
noted the naturalness with which the “ dia¬ 
lect ” had been returned. 

“Til wager my portion of the supper/’he 
said, “that he is a Tennessean, and from the 
hill country.” He pointed in the direction 
taken by the stranger. He missed, however, 
the warning—“ Sh ! ” from the Tennessee 
side. 

“ A Tennessee mountaineer—” he went 
on. “His speech betwrayeth him.” 

Then one of our boys spoke right out. 

“ Look out! ” said he, “ the Governor is 
from the hill country too.” 

The silence was embarrassing, until the 
figure over against the crag took the pipe 
from between his lips, and struck the howl 
upon his palm gently, the smile still linger- 
gering about his mouth. 

“ Yes,” he said, “ I was born among the 
hills of Tennessee. ‘ The Barrens/ geolo- 


JiMIing W TOnj to £mt. 


43 


gists call it; the poets name it ‘ Land of the 
Sky.’ My heart can find for it no holier 
name than—home.” 

The Governor leaned back against the 
crag. We knew the man, and wondered as 
to the humor that was upon him. Politician, 
wit, comrade, gentleman; as each we knew 
him. But as native, mountaineer, ah ! he 
was a stranger to us in that role. We had 
heard of the quaint ease with which he could 
drop into the speech of his native hills, no 
less than the grace with which he filled the 
gubernatorial chair. 

He had “ stumped the state ” twice as 
candidate, once as elector. His strange, 
half-humorous, half-pathetic oratory was 
familiar in every county from the mountains 
to the Mississippi. But the native ;—we al¬ 
most held our breath while the transforma¬ 
tion took place. And the governor-orator 
for the moment became the mountaineer. 

“ I war born,” he said, “on the banks o’ 


44 Jitldlincj to Winj tu Jamr. 

the Wataugy, in the county uv Cartir,—in 
a cabin whose winders opened ter the East, 
an’ to’des the sunrise. That war my old 
mother’s notion an’ bekase it war her notion 
it war alius right ter me. Fur she was not 
one given ter wrong ideas. 

“ I war her favorite chil’ uv the seven God 
give. My cheer set nighest hers. The 
yaller yarn that slipped her shiny needles 
first slipped from hank ter ball acrost my 
sunburnt wrists. The mug uv goldish cream 
war alius at my plate; the cl’arest bit uv 
honey-comb, laid crost the biggis’ plug uv 
pie, war alius set fur me. The bit o’ extry 
sweetnin’ never missed my ole blue chiny 
cup. 

“ An’ summer days when fiel’ work war a- 
foot, a bottle full o’ fraish new buttermilk 
war alius tucked away amongst the corn 
pones in my dinner pail. 

u An’ when I tuk ter books, an’ readin’ 
uv the papers, an’ the ole man riz up ag’inst 


JiMIittfl Itte Way U £mt. 45 

it, bekase I war more favored ter the book 
nor ter the plough, then my old mount’n 
mammy, ez alius stood ’twixt me an’ wrath, 
she riz up too, an’ bargained with the ole 
man fur two hours uv my time. This war 
the bargain struck. From twelve er’clock 
ontil the sun marked two upon the kitchen 
doorstep I war free. 

“ Ever’ day fur this much I war free. 
An’ in my stid, whilst I lay under the lioss 
apple tree an’ figgered out my book stuff, 
she followed that ole plough up an’ down the 
en’less furrers acrost that hot ontrodd’n 
fiel’—in my stid. 

“ I’ve travelled some sence then, ploughed 
many a furrer in the fiel’ o’ this worl’s 
troubles, an’ I hev foun’ ez ther’ be few ez 
keers tur tek the plough whilst I lay by ter 
rest. 

“ An’ when the work war done, an’ 
harvest in, Ituk ter runnin’ down o’ nights 
ter hear the boys discuss the questions o’ the 


46 JhUUing to ta Jam*. 

day at Jube Turner’s store over ter the set¬ 
tlement. 

“ ’Twar then the ole man sot his foot down. 

“ 6 It hev ter stop ! ’ he said. 6 The boy 
air cornin’ ter no good.’ 

“ Then my ole mammy riz agin, an’ 
set down ez detarmint ez him; an’ sez 
she:— 

“ 6 He be a man, an’ hev the hankerin’s uv a 
man. The time hev come fur me ter speak. 
The boy must hev his l’arnin’-books his min’ 
calls fur. He aims ter mix with men ; an’ 
you an’ me, ole man, must stand aside, an’ 
fit him fur the wrastle ez be boun’ ter come. 
Hit air bespoke fur him, an’ tlier’ ben’t 
no sense in henderin’ sech ez be bespoke 
beforehan’.’ 

“ She kerried, an’ I went ter school. The 
house air standin’ now—a cabin in the valley, 
nigh the banks o’ the Wataugy. I tuk ter 
books, they said, like beans ter cornstalks. 
An’ winter nights I’d pile the pine knots on 


JitMUittg to Way to Jam*. 47 

the fire, to light me ter the secrets uv them 
blue an’ yaller kivers. 

66 An’ she’d set by an’ holp me with her 
presence, my ole mount’n mother would. 
She even holped to gether up the pine knots 
when the days war over short. She holped 
me ever way. Her heart retched down ter 
mine an’ l’arned its needs, an’ holped ter 
satisfy them. She flung the rocks out uv 
my way, openin’ up the path before—the 
path her partial eye had sighted, every inch 
uv it. 

u She saved the butter an’ sent it off ter 
the settlemint ter sell it, so’s I could hev a 
daily paper, when she see ez I war hankerin’ 
fur it. 

“ An’ when it kem, I’d set ther’ on a kaig 
an’ read it ter the mount’n boys, an’ Jube; 
they-uns flocked ter me like crows flockin’ 
ter a corn-field ; an’ me it war, a mount’n 
stripplin’, ez dealt the word o’ politics ter 
they-uns. 


48 Jitidling to Way in Jame* 

“ But somethin’ worrit me : a hitch war in 
my l’arnin’. Still, the ole man in the cabin 
begin ter grow more easy-like an’ teck ter 
readin’ an’ war not ill-pleased ter git the 
news. An’ he fretted sometimes ef I tarried 
ter the store, bekase he war a-waitin’ fur the 
news. But I war troubled; and that eye ez 
war alius open ter my ailments see that I war 
worrit. An’ one day when I kem down the 
road, she met me, my ole mammy, an’ she 
put her hand onter my arm, an’ walked along 
o’ me. An’ sez she :— 

“ ‘ What air it, son, ez be a-troublin’ uv 
ye, I be yer mammy, an’ ez sech yer frien’, 
an’ I aims ter know yer ailments.’ 

“ An’ I tuk that tremblin’ hand close inter 
mine, an’ I spoke my min’, my feelin’s, 
freely. 

“ ‘ I be worrit,’ sez I, ‘ becase I be onable 

ter make out ef I be riedit or no.’ 

© 

“ 6 In politics ? ’ sez she. 

“ ‘ Yaas,’ sez I, ‘ in politics. I git but 


JiMIiwg hte TOty to gmt. 


49 


one side o’ the matter, an’ I know ez tlier’ 
be two. An’ I ben’t satisfied with this side, 
an’ still I be onable ter make out the other !’ 

“ She onriddled me at onc’t. 

u c You-uns must hev the other paper, son/ 
sez she. ‘Your granddad war a politician 
under Clay ; an’ ther’ war two sides then, an’ 
tlier’ air boun’ ter be two now, although the 
word uv it may not retch the Wataugy.’ 

“ I never will furgit the first day it kem, 
that Dimercratic paper. I went ter the settle- 
mint, I knowed the paper war a comin, an’ I 
guessed what it would be; a coal o’ fire ter 
that Republican stronghold. 

“ I tuk my fiddle down; it war my 
mother’s thought. 

“ ‘ Play ’em Sally Gal,’ sez she, * afore the 
mail comes.’ 

“ I done it; an’ they-uns war toler’ble 
frien’ly; fur the mount’ll boys alius hev a 
weakness fur a fiddle an’ a mount’n fiddler. 

u But when the mail war opened—Laud ! 

4 


50 


JiMing W Way ta <£i\m. 


how they swore an’ tuk on. Some laffed; a 
mighty few though, an’ some winked ter one 
ernother. Some cussed outright an’ all war 
thunderstruck. Ez fur me, I went out ter 
it, an’ it kem in ter me. I war a Dimercrat 
from that good day. 

“ I tuk it home; the ole man list’ned, 
countin’ it a mighty joke ter hear me an’ 
brother Alf argerfyin’ ’bout the two sides, an’ 
sometimes he’d say which heat in argerfyin’, 
but he mostly alius went with Alf. Bimeby 
Alf tuk the Republican paper, ez my time 
give out, an’ we-uns went tergether ter the 
settlemint; an’ we’d mount a kaig, him on 
one, and me on t’other, and we’d give the 
news ter both sides, him an’ me. Some few 
sided long o’ me, but most war tuk to Alf. 
An’ so it war onderstood ez I war Dimercrat, 
and Alf Republican. 

“ It tickled the ole man mightily. He 
useter call in the Wataugy boys ter hear us 
argerfy o’ nights, and they-uns sot in jedg- 


JiMling to Wag t# ^mne. 51 

mint ez ter which uv we-uns war the best at 
sech. Alf alius got the vote, an’ one night 
I riz up ; fur I war mad some, an’ I give the 
word ez how a Dimercrat would never stan’ 
no chance o’ justice in sech a onfair destrict. 
They-uns laffed, but tlier was one ez sot her 
face aginst sech. c A house set against itself 
air boun’ ter come ter bad luck/ my ole 
mother said. 

u One day tlier’ war a meetin’ ter the 
settlemint, a political meetin’, an’ Jube war 
buckin’ up the boys right peart, an’ war 
about ter sweep off everthing. I moved 
about a hit among they-uns, an’ after a little 
the word war giv ez tlier’ war a split. 

“ Then kem a row, an’ Jube he druv the 
Dimercrats out ’n o’ his store, an’ they held 
the’r meetin’ in the blacksmith’s shop. An’ 
I war goin’ out along o’ they-uns, an’ Jube 
see me ; an’ he sez, sez he :— 

“ ‘ Come hack here, Bob, an’ vote your 
good ole daddy’s principles.’ Fur Jube war 


52 JiMiny to Way to Jam*, 

boss o’ that ther’ destrict. But I war mad, 
an’ I sez, sez I:— 

“‘ I aims ter vote my own principles/ sez 
I, ‘ an’ they be Dimercratic.’ 

“ An’ when that day war over, ole Si 
Ridley he rid over ter we-uns’ cabin on the 
Wataugy an’ give the word as I war nom¬ 
inated ter the Legislatur aginst big Judge 
Griggsby, the rankest Republican ter all that 
county. 

“ Then the ole man riz up in real dead 
earnest. He named me fur a idiot an’ a up¬ 
start, an’ let on ez how he never ’lowed that 
playful argerfyin’ o’ Alf an’ me would ever 
be tuk fur more’ll a little playful talk. 

“ He swore he’d thrash the heresy out o’ 
me. Then my ole mammy, she riz up. 

“‘Nary lick, Josiah,’ sez she. ‘He hev 
the right ter choose, an’ he hev done it.’ 

“ Then he give the word ez he’d vote 
aginst me same’s he would any other Dimer- 
crat. He kept his word. On the day uv 


53 


JitldUng fe Way to Jamc. 

election him an’ the boys went over ter 
Jube’s ter vote. 

“ Folks showed considerable interest, al¬ 
lowing ez blood war more stronger nor 
politics, an’ that the ole man would come 
over ter me in the eend. 

“But he didn’t; he jest voted clean an’ 
open fur Griggsby, an’ I ’lowed the boys 
would foller his lead. But when my oldest 
brother stepped up an’ drapped in a vote 
fur me, I cl’ar furgot myself, an’ I jest flung 
up my hat an’ shouted, ( Count one fur the 
Dimercrat.’ 

“ The ole man war pow’ful mad. But 
when Alf an’ Dave an’ Hugh voted with him, 
it kinder eased him some. But when the 
next cast lots with me, I yelled again. 

“ ‘ Hooray fur Dimocracy ! ’ sez I. An’ 
the ole man he jest lifted up his ridin’ switch, 
an’ sez he :— 

“ ‘ Stop, sir ! Take off your coat, sir. I’ll 
thrash that Dimocracy out o’ you.’ 


54 


JhUUiwy hitf Way to Jam*. 

“ Ye could a heerd a pin drap. Then I 
ketched ole Jube Turner’s eye. He alius 
’lowed ther’ war no backbone to a Dimercrat. 
An’ when I see him I flung* back my coat an’ 
bowed my shoulders fur the ole man’s lash. 

“ The boys drapped back, disappointed, 
an’ I heard a hiss ez the first blow fell. 
Forty licks. I tuk ’em without a tremble. 
An’ when the last un fell, I riz up an’ tore 
off my hat, an’ tossed it up ter the rafters, 
an’ sez I, ez loud ez I could, ‘ Hooray fur 
Dimocracy! Forty lashes hev heat it ter red- 
hot heat.’ 

“ Then a yell went up, an’ I knowed ez 
Carter County war gone Dimercratic fur 
onc’t, afore ole Jube stepped out afore the 
boys, an’ tuk off his hat an’ sez, 6 1 be fur 
the feller ez can’t be beat out o’ his prin¬ 
ciples.’ 

“ Them war stormy times in the cabin on 
the Wataugy, I kin tell ye. The boys built 
a bonfire top o’ Lynn Mount’n jest acrost 


55 


JitUUing to Way to Jam*, 

the river. It lit up the kentry fur miles, an’ 
my ole mammy watched it through her tears 
ez she stood in the cabin door; but the old 
man didn’t speak ter me no more till I war 
startin’ off ter Nashvill ter tek my seat, ez 
‘ the member from Carter.’ 

“ But my ole mammy follered me down 
ter the settlement, wlier’ the boys war waitin’ 
ter say good-by, an’ she tuk my han’ ’n 
hers, an’ sez she :— 

“ ‘ Legislatur or plow-boy, remember ye 
air born to die ! ’ 

“‘Mend up the road law,’ said Jube, at 
partin’, ‘ an’ let down the gap ter the still 
house.’ Fur Jube had a taste fur apple- 
juice an’ corn squeezin’s. 

“ Waal, I moved along toler’ble peart. 
Ef I could set the boys a-laffin’, I war 
toler’ble sartin’ ter kerry my p’int. Ef I 
couldn’t, someun would move adjournmint, 
‘ Ter give Bob time ter ile up,’ they said. 
4 Ilin’ up ’ meant gettin’ my fiddle ready an’ 


56 


JiMting Jug Way to £mt. 

callin’ the boys tergether in a committee- 
room or somewher’s, an’ tollin’ ’em inter 
measures with c Rabbit in the Pea Patch’— 
‘ Chicken in the Bread Tray ’—an’ some o’ 
the other mount’n tunes. The mount’n 
boys war alius sure to come under after a 
pull at the ole fiddle. It jest put ’em inter 
a kind o’ jubilee that would a’ let the State 
o’ Tennessee go ter the devul, ef unly the 
fiddle war left. 

“ ‘ Remember ye air bora ter die.’ I 
could hear it in the twang o’ the fiddle- 
strings, a-playin’ the boys inter harness, in 
the clerk’s voice a-callin’ the roll, in the 
speaker’s gavil a-knockin’ fur order. 

“ One mornin’ ther’ war a big railroad 
bill afore the House, an’ the Dimercrats 
went one side the track, and the Republi¬ 
cans went t’other. An’ I sot ther’ awaitin’ 
my turn ter vote ; an’ when it kem, I riz up 
scarcely knowin’ what I war a-doin’, an’ sez 

I 


57 


fiddling Way ter Jmne. 

“ ‘ I be born ter die ! I be aginst that 

bill/ 

“An’ the boys set up a yell, a-callin’ ter 
me not ter do it. An’ the nex’ day the 
papers named me fur a Jonah, an’ said ez I 
Avar showin’ uv the East Tennessee streak 
ter my bacon. The streak in East Ten¬ 
nessee bacon air a Republican streak, they 
’lowed. An’ they made game o’ my sayin’ 
I war born ter die. I went ter bed that 
night toler’ble crushed. But in my dreams, 
I war back ter the fair valley o’ the 
Wataugy, an’ a face deep-scarred an’ wrinkled 
riz up afore me, an a pair o’ faded eyes 
1<joked inter mine, an’ I heeard the voice o’ 
my ole mammy, ‘ Stan’ by your principles. 
Ye air born to die ! ’ 

“ So I went ’long. One day ther’ war a 
mighty rumpus over a bill to shet off gamblin’ 
in the State o’ Tennessee. Times were hot, 
an’ word war give ez how some aimed ter 
hev that bill, spite o’ locks an’ safes an’ 


58 


JiMUng \u$ Way to Jamr. 

clerks an’ sargeants. Ther’ war a night 
session. An’ I war at it. An’ ez I run my 
han’ inter my desk, it tetched a package. I 
tuk it up ; pinned ter it war a note. ‘ $5,000 
fur a vote against the Gamblin’ Bill,’ it said. 
I dropped my head on my desk an’ groaned. 
I war unly a mount’ll stripplin’, an’ that 
temptation war orful, orful. 

Remember ye air born ter die.’ Ole 
mount’ll mother. I could hear her voice 
above the voice o’ the tempter. 

“ When my name war called, I riz up, 
that roll o’ gunpowder in my hand. I lielt 
it out afore ’em all, high up ez I could retch, 
an’ I yelled out in reg’lar mount’ll fashion— 
‘ Who bids ? ’ sez I, ( who bids ? Five 
thousan’ fur some man’s honor. Come an’ 
git it whosoever air minded- Ez fur me, I 
air not a bidder.’ 

“ An’ I flung it with all my might acrost 
the house, an’ I lieeard it fall at the clerk’s 
feet ez I called ter him to put me down 


Jiddttny to Way to Jam*. 59 

fur that bill. ‘ Fur it, till the crack o’ 
doom.’ 

“ Laud ! I never kalkulated on raisin’ 
such a rumpus. I war the bigges’ man in 
Tennessee that night. I went ter bed, ter 
be woke up by the brass band under my 
winder, a-playin’ c Hail ter the Chief.’ 

“ I war alius a fool about a band anyhow, 
an’ when I lieeard that grand old tune, 
played fur me,—me , I jest drapped back 
’mongst the kivers and cried like a baby. 

“ Me , hid away in a forty-ninth class 
bo’rdin’ house,— me , the plow-boy o’ the 
Wataugy. Then the boys bust in an’ 
ordered me inter my clothes, an’ drug me 
out fur a speech. An’ when I heeard the 
yellin’, sez I, ‘ Boys, in the name o’ creation 
what hev I done ? ’ An’ some-un said, sez 
he, 6 Ye’ve turned the water-pipe loose on 
hell,—that’s what ye’ve done.’ 

“ I went home shortly after that—went a- 
wonderin’ what Jube would say. Fur Jube 


UO JititcUiny tti^ Way ta Jame. 

war toler’ble fond uv ole Sledge now’n 
then. 

“ Waal, I hev lied some success , I say it 
meekly; an’ I hev felt some little pride, I 
say it meekly ; an’ I hev lied some happy 
minutes in my life. But the happies’ 
minute I ever knowed war that minute when 
I sot my foot on my native East Tennessee 
sile agin, an’ felt the hand o’ honest old Jube 
Turner tek holt o’ mine an’ wring it hard, 
whilst he looked away to’des the blue hills, 
for the tears war in his eyes, an’ sez he : 
‘ Ye’ll do ter trust, youngster ! ’ 

“ The ox-wagin war tlier’ ter meet me ter 
fetch me up the mount’ll. The ole steers, 
Buck and Bill, lied flags a-flyin’ from tlier 
horns, an’ the wagin war all kivered up in 
cedar branches an’ the pretty pink azalea 
that growed right around our cabin door. 
An’ h’isted squar’ on top uv all war a pole, 
a sign-board, with a flag a-flyin’, an’ on it my 
ole school-marm lied writ a line :— 


61 


Jiddlittg fe Way to <fame. 

“ ‘ The plow-boy o’ the Wataugy; Truth, 
the sledge hammer o’ the mountaineer ! ’ 

u An’ how the boys did shout ! They 
fairly drug me ter the wagin, an’ then all 
fell inter line, an’ sot out fur the cabin long 
side the Wataugy. 

“ Home! that little cabin wher’ the 
winders turned ter meet the sun ; the waters 
sing ther’ all the year aroun’, sing and 
sob. One part the pretty river red’nin’ 
in the sun, an’ t’other dead black with the 
shadow uv the pines that cap the summit uv 
Lynn Mount’n. 

“ An’ the boys come down ter meet me 
at the bars, an’ the ole man, proud uv his 
son, ashamed uv the Dimercrat, leanin’ on 
his staif under the greenin’ hop-vines. An’, 
best uv all, the vision uv a little woman 
standin’ in the door, shadin’ her eyes aginst 
the sunlight, waitin’ fur her boy. 

“ The flag floated above my head; the 
boys yelled the’rse’ves hoarse ; the wagin 


62 JiMtiwg to Wag to £}\m. 

creaked, an’ Jube’s whip cracked about the 
spotted steer’s back. But I heeard nothin’; 
I seed nothin’, but my mother waitin’ in the 
door. She tuk me in her arms, an’ drapped 
her cheek upon my bosom. 

“ ‘ My boy,’ she said; an’ it war wutli ten 
times over the whole that I lied won. 

“But the ole man war worrit. A sign 
pinned ter the wagin-hed hed tuk his eye. 

“ ‘ The Champion o’ Democracy,’ it said. 

“ ‘ Take it down,’ said some one, ‘ it 
worries the ole man.’ An’ one riz up ter cut 
it down. But I war ther’ afore him, an’ I 
retched out ter take the hand that would cut 
away my colors. 

“‘Stop!’ sez I. ‘Boys,’ I went on, 
‘ they be my colors. I’ll not hide ’em from 
the eye uv God or man.’ 

“ Then they raised a shout: ‘ Them 
colors’ll stan’ ye good stead fur Congress,’ 
they said, ‘ bimeby.’ 

“ They done it. It war this way. Tlier’ 


63 


JiMling K\$ Way ter Jamr. 

war foul play in the convention, the Re¬ 
publican convention. An’ ole Bony Petti- 
brash, who aimed to boss that kentry, .got 
the nomination. That riled the boys, and 
they-uns swore he never should be elected. 
So when the Dimercrats nomernated me, the 
t’other elemint being ag’inst ole Petti- 
brash come out fur me, an’ I went ter Con¬ 
gress. 

“ I had ter work fur it though, fur Petti- 
brash hed his follerin’. He war a pow’ful 
hand at argerfyin’, though not much on a 
joke. He war long-winded, an’ my unly 
chance war in the fae’ that the boys got 
tired uv him. I laid my plans—’twas my 
ole mammy holped me, an’ suggested. 

“ One night we-uns war ter meet at the 

O 

loir school-house an’ discuss matters. A big 
crowd war ter be ther’, an’ I tuk my fiddle 
along, ciccerdentally, so ter speak. The 
boys war lookin’ oneasy. 

Can’t ye tell a good coon yarn, Bob?’ 


64 


JiMting to Way to $xm. 

they sez. But Jube ’lowed a ’possum story 
ez I knowed would tek better. 

“ Then I whispered in Jube’s ear the plan 
I bed laid out. 

“ Jest afore speakin’ time I onwropped my 
fiddle an’ twanged a string. 

“‘Give us a tune, Bob,’ sung out Jube, 
‘ter liven us up a bit whilst we’re waitin’.’ 

“ I tetched the bow acrost the strings. 
‘ Rabbit in the Pea-Patch,’—the boys began 
ter pat; soft at first, then a bit more peart. 
Then I played up—that ole Rabbit went a- 
skippin’ an’ a-trippin’, I kin tell ye. Far’ 
well ter the peas in that patch. How the 
boots did strike that ole puncheon floor! 
Jube led. I could bear bis leather ’hove all 
the rest. 

“ All ’t onc’t I struck inter ‘Rollin’ 
River ’; fur I see ole Pettibrash eyein’ uv 
me through the winder. Jube see it, too— 
an’ sez be—‘ Plenty o’ time, boys, fur 
speakin’. Out with the benches, an’ let’s 


65 


JiMIittg to TOig U Jmnr, 

hev a dance.’—Out they went, an’ the gals 
an’ wimmen folks kem in; an’ then I tuk 
the teacher’s desk, an’ put my fiddle ter my 
shoulder, an’ sez I, ‘ Boys, ef ye’d rether hev 
cat-gut music ez ter hev chin, I’m yer man. 
But I’ll jest mek all the speech I’ve got ter 
mek in mighty few words. It air this : I’m 
agin the Blair Bill an’ fur the fair thing. 
Them’s my sentiments in Congress or on the 
mount’ll.’ 

“ Then I tetched up the fiddle, an’ give 
’em ‘ Chicken in the Bread Tray,’ whilst ole 
Pettibrash war left ter chaw the ragged eend 
o’ disapp’intment. It war midnight when 
we quit. We offered ter ‘ divide time ’ about 
eleven o’clock, but the hoys war in fur a 
frolic. Waal, we-uns went to Congress, me 
an’ the fiddle. An’ that ole fiddle went 
long o’ me ter all the speakin’s afore it went 
ter Congress, an’ it beat ole Pettibrash all 
ter hollow fur argumint. ‘ Fiddled his way 
ter Congress,’ the papers said, an’ they 


66 JiddHttg hi# Way la Jama. 

didn’t miss it ez fur ez I hev knowed ’em ter 
do. 

“ But the fiddle war not done yit. The 
papers talked mightily about it, an’ about 
me ‘ fiddlin’ my way ter fame ’ an’ sech. 

“ One day a question kem up fur the 
protection uv iron, an’ I voted fur it, long 
with the Republicans. Ye see I war a 
mount’ll boy; an’ them ole hills o’ Ten¬ 
nessee, sech ez war not filled with marble, 
war chuck full o’ iron or coal, or sech. I 
war boun’ ter stan’ by the mount’ll. The 
papers abused me mightily, an’ ’lowed ez I 
played the wrong tune that time. 

“ That night I had a difTTint surrenade, 
on mighty diff’rint instrumints from the ole 
Tennessee brass band. They war tin horns, 
an’ busted buckets, an’ cowbells; an’ ther’ 
war a feller ez give out the tunes, an’ one 
war this:— 

“‘The Whelp o’ the Wataugy,’ an’ the 
band applauded right along. 


67 


JuhlUng te Way to Jame. 

u The next war :— 

“ c The Fiddlin’ Mugwump/ an’ the band 
seconded the motion. 

“ ‘ The Protection ’Possum o’ the Cumber- 
lands’ fetched down the house. 

“ Then some-un called fur me, an’ I went 
out, me an’ the fiddle. An’ I didn’t say a 
word; I jist tetched the bow acrost the 
strings, an’ begin ter play,— 

1 Kerry me back, 

Kerry me back ter Tennessee! ’ 

“ Fur a minute all war still ez the dead. 
Then some-un shouted, ( Go it, Bob ! ’ An’ 
the whole earth fairly sliuk with the’r 
shoutin’. 

“ ‘ Fiddle away, ole coon,’ they hollered. 
“ Go it, my whelp ! ’—‘ Hooray fur Ten¬ 
nessee ! ’ 

“ The next mornin’ ther’ war a big poplar 
coffin settin’ on the steps o’ my bo’din’ house 
an’ a big fiddle laid ’pon top o’ it, an’ on a 


68 


JiMtittfl hi^ Way to Jam*. 

white card war painted in black letters : 6 Hang 
up the fiddle an’ the bow.’ An’ another 
card said: ‘ Kin any good come out o’ 

Nazareth ? ’ meanin’ East Tennessee. 

“ Then the mount’ll in me riz big ez a 
mule. An’ that day I made a speech. A 
speech fur Tennessee, with her head in the 
clouds an’ her feet in the big Mississippi. 
I spoke fur the green banks uv the Wataugy 
an’ the hills that lift ther’ crested tips ter 
ketch alike the kiss uv sunshine an’ of 
cloud — Free Tennessee—the little strip 
God breathed upon an’ Nature kissed, to 
set it all a-bloomin’. An’ I ’lowed ez 
I aimed ter stan’ by her, an’ by her 
ole iron-filled hills till the breath lef’ 
my body, spite o’ coffins an’ fiddles, cowbells 
an’ tin horns. ‘ An’ she’ll stan’ by me,’ sez 
I, ‘I ben’t afeard ter risk ole Tennessee.’ 
An’ I give the word ez I’d never hang up the 
fiddle till East Tennessee ordered it, an’ ole 
Jube Turner signed the documint. It war 


69 


JidtUing \\\$ Way U Jatnc. 

all in the papers iiex’ clay an’ I jest mailed 
’em out ter Jube. He war mightily tickled, 
an’ the boys all laffed some when he read it 
out ter they-uns. 

“ I made one more race, me an’ the fiddle, 
an’ hit war the stormiest race I ever set out 
fur. I lied a new foe ter fight this time, 
one ez ole Pettibrash couldn’t tetch with a 
forty-foot pole. Hit war jist my own 
brother. The Republicans put him out to 
head me off, thinkin’ ez I wuldn’t make the 
race ag’inst my own brother. I war with 
Jube when the news o’ the nomernation 
kem. An’ Jube he swore an’ cussed like all 
possessed. He give the word ez I hed to 
make the race fur Gov’ner o’ Tennessee 
ef the whole fam’ly kem out ez candi¬ 
dates. 

“ I went home. I war not able ter face 
the ole man an’ the Republican elemint i’ the 
fam’ly; so I went out an’ sot on a log under 


70 


JitUUing W to Jam*. 

the apple tree an’ watched the sun a-settin’ 
bellin’ Lynn Mount’ll. So, it seemed ter me, 
my sun war goin’ down bellin’ the mount’ll 
o’ helplessness—my sun o’ success. 

“ After a while my ole mother foun’ me 
out an’ kem down, an’ I told her ez how I 
war hendered by my brother bein’ a candidate. 
An’ she heeard me out an’ then—sez she-— 
an’ her words were slow an’ keerful:— 
“‘Ye hev the right; Alfred knowed ez 
ye aimed ter mek the race, an’ lie hev unly 
done this ter hurt the Dimercrats. Ye hev 
the right ter go on fur yer party, the same 
ez Alfred hev fur his. Ye hev that right.’ 

“ Then I riz up an’ went in. An’ I tuk 
down the old fiddle, an’ teched it gentle-like, 
an’ all the ole times kem crowdin’ back. I 
see the Hall o’ Representatives. An’ I 
heeard the clerk’s voice callin’ uv the roll. 
An’ the shouts o’ the boys a-contendin’. 
Then it changed an’ ‘ Hail ter the Chief,’ 
said the fiddle in my ear, unly it war a brass 


71 


\ 


Jiddling \n$ Way io Jam*. 

band. Then the tune turned agin, an’ I 
heeard the cowbells an’ the tin horns an’ the 
liissin’ uv the people. Then it began to 
fade, an’ then it wur a white-tail rabbit 
skippin’ an’ skeedadlin’ through a turnip- 
patch while all the world seemed ter beat time 
to the tune of the fiddle, singin’ me to glory, 
an’ I riz up an’ shuk the fiddle in the face o’ 
the whole house, an’ sez I:— 

“‘Yaas, I’ll go. I will go. All hell 
can’t hender me.’ 

“ An’ I went. Me an’ the fiddle, fur it 
tuk tall playin’ ter git above Alf, ez war up 
ter all my tricks. 

“ Nip an’ tuck we run together on the first 
quarter, together on the second ; Alf a nose 
behin’ on the third, an’ me a neck ahead 
on the home-stretch, me an’ the fiddle. 
‘ Fiddled himself inter the Gov’ner’s cheer,’ 
they said; an’ ther’ war some toler’ble tall 
fiddlin’ done after we got ther’. 

“ I ain’t laid her by yit, my ole pardner. 


72 


JiMling Itte Way to Jam*. 

Ther’s a vacancy ter the United States 
Senate jest ahead, an’—” 

There was a shout down the river: the 
fisherman had returned. The governor rose 
and shook himself. 

“ Ah, gentlemen,” he said, “ we shall have 
fish for our supper after all.” 

Kichard was himself again. 


A WONDERFUL EXPERIENCE 
MEETING. 


Being Christmas time the brethren thought 
it not amiss that something extra, in the way 
of entertainment, be done at Nebo. Many 
and warm were the discussions before they 
had fairly voted down the cake-walking 
which the “ young folks nomernated fur,” 
the “festerble imposed ” by the more worldly 
among the older members, and the Christmas 
tree espoused by those who were in the habit 
of carrying down presents for themselves to 
be “ called out,” while hungry-eyed little 
“ niggers ” by the score watched greedily and 
waited longingly, to be rewarded by a string 
of burnt popcorn perhaps at the last. 

These being severally voted upon and put 



74 Wonderful (Experience fleeting. 

down by the more religious element, who had 
taken the matter in hand, an experience meet¬ 
ing was finally substituted in lieu of the 
worldly amusements, as being more in keep¬ 
ing with the sacred occasion. Once decided 
upon, all went to work alike to push it to 
success. Even yellow “Kelline,” the belle, 
who always carried off the prize at the cake- 
walkings, rallied to the help of the “ c spe’ience 
meet’ii’ ” determined to prove to the brethren 
that she could talk as well as walk. 

It was a great meeting, a never-to-be-for¬ 
gotten meeting, held Christmas morning, be¬ 
fore sun-up; for there were the Christmas 
breakfasts “ to be got fur de whi’ folks ” at 
the homes where many of the early worship¬ 
pers were employed. They turned out in 
full force: Old Aunt Sally, who always 
nodded during the collection (wide-awake 
now) ; “ Little Jinny,” the fashionable 

member who rivalled “ Kelline ” in popu¬ 
larity ; Cross-eyed Pete, the most notorious 


% Wonderful Experience Peering, 75 

thief in the town, the most vociferous shouter 
in the church, and who spent at least one- 
fourth of his time in the county jail; Old 
Jordan, who declared he had served his time 
“ at bein’ a nigger,” and who wanted “ter 
git home ter lieab’n whar dey’s allwhi’ folks 
dest alike; ” and there was Shaky Jake, whose 
idea of heaven was one of golden streets and 
pearly gates, and who had never been able to 
reconcile it to his conscience that so much 
“ gold en stuff should jes’ be layin’ roun’ 
loose en doin’ miffin’.” There was “Slicky 
Dave ” the barber, who looked upon the 
future bliss as a thing of shimmer and shine 
and golden crowns. And there was Uncle 
Mose, who had “ raised the tunes ” for Nebo 
“ sence tudder Moses lef’ dar,” he was wont 
to declare ; and who expected to be offered a 
seat in the choir when he reached “ de 
prommus lan’ ” and received his harp and 
crown. And there was “ Slow Molly,” 
whose idea of heaven consisted of dozing 


76 ^ Wonderful <$xirevience Peking* 

under a plum tree and waving a palm branch. 
And all, from baby Jube to toothless Jake, 
were to be shod in golden slippers. Heaven 
without those golden slippers—oh! no; 
there is no such heaven possible to the negro 
conception. 

The morning of the big meet’n’ dawned 
cool and crisp, with a sprinkle of white 
snow, as Christmas morning should dawn, 
always. “ Brudder Bolles ” went to work in 
a manner that showed “ he had Chris’mus in 
his bones; ” brisk, earnest, hopeful. After 
a short, fiery prayer he arose, and called 
upon the members to speak, “ to testify 
accord’n’ ez dey wuz moved by de Sperit ter 
so do.” 

Shaky Jake was the first to respond. 
“ Brudder Bolles,” said he, leaning forward, 
a hand thrust into each trousers pocket, his 
ragged old coat a speech without words to 
proclaim the fact that Christmas wasn’t all 
warmth and prosperity despite its cheer. But 


gt Wonderful Experience Peetinp. 77 

old Jake was there to testify, not to complain. 
“ Brudder Bolles, I hah alius lieeard say dat 
Chris’mus am de time fur ’spe’ience—de bes’ 
time ob all de times. Hit am de time when 
de trees bleeds, en de cows git down on dey 
knees, en de sperets walks de yearth, en de 
cbickins en de birds don’ go ter roost et all, 
but jes’ keeps watch all de night froo. So I 
hab lieeard ; en, Brudder Bolles, bit sholy 
am de time. Fur las’ night whilst I wuz 
layin’ awake, thinkin’ ’bout Chris’mus, en de 
tukkeys, en de shoat, en de poun’ cake what 
I ud lack ter lay in fur de ole ’oman en de 
chillen—fur de comfut ob my fam’ly en de 
glory ob de Lawd—whilst I lay dar dement’n’ 
ob de bard times, en de col’, en all , I went 
off into a tranch. 

u En in de tranch I wuz transfloated up 
inter de heab’ns—jes’ lack I wuz, in my ole 
close, liongry en po’ en bent wid de mis’ry 
en all . En when I got dar, in my ole rags, 
I jes’ stood et de do’, ’shame’ ter go in whar 


78 % ‘Wonderful (Experience peeting. 

dey uz all dressed up in dey Sunday close en 
all. Look lack dey uz habbin’ ob a picnic, or 
else dey uz allgwineon a ’scussion somewhars, 
dey uz all so fine, en bed so many nice fixin’s. 
I stood dar on de outside, lookin’ on. I stood, 
en stood twell I couldn’t stan’ no mo’, ’count 
ob de col’, ’ca’se bit uz Chris’mus, en winter, 
en all dat. I wuz jes’ about ter tu’n ’wayen 
g’long back borne whar I come fum, ’ca’se 
I knowed I ud nuver be able ter keep up 
wid de style lack dey uz all containin’ ob up 
dar, when de front do’ opened en Marse 
Jesus Hisse’f walked out on de front peazzy. 
En He see me standin’ dar in de col’ en all, 
en sez He :— 

u ‘ What’s de matter, Unc’ Jake ? What 
am de incasion ob yo’ bad feelin’s ? ’ 

u Sez I, 4 Marster, de ole nigger’s mighty 
po’ en all; en be ain’t got no close fitten ter 
soshate wid all dem in dar ! ’ 

“ He jes’ step back ter de do’ en retch bis 
han’ fur de bell-lian’le en when de do’ wuz 


% Wonderful (fkpericure Porting. 79 

opened, sez he ter de gyardeen ob it, sez He, 
‘ Peter, jes’ let Unc’ Jake step inside dar a 
minit.’ En I stepped in long o’ Him, drap- 
pin’ my ole hat on de do’ step, en shadin’ ob 
my eyes fum de glory—en a-wait’n’, des’ a- 
wait’n’. 

“ Well, brudderin, He jes’ glanced down 
et dem golden streets en den up et my ole 
rags, en sez He, ‘Unc’ Jake, jes’ rip up one 
ob de bricks out’n dat pavemint en go buy 
yo’se’f some close ; den come up dem golden 
sta’rs yon’er ter de ballroom. Buy yo’se’f 
de wedd’n’ gyarmint, fur de bridegroom sholy 
gwine ’spect yer ter dance et de infair ter- 
night. En,’ sez He, ‘ don’t hab no termod’ty 
’bout spendin’ ob de brick, bit’s yo’en, en 
dey’s plenty mo’ here, des’ a-doin’ nuffin’. 
Spen’ it all; en’ what’s lef’ go buy yo’se’f 
some oyschers wid hit.’ 

“ An, den I woked up out’n de traneb. 
En bit uz col’, en de chillen uz bongry, en 
de breakfus’ some skimp. But I’se here ter 


80 §V Wonderful (#xpcmna parting. 

testerfy et dat ain’t lienclerin’ o’ me none. 
Hit’s warm in lieab’n wliar dey’s all liabbin’ 
ob dey Cbris’mus ter-day; Chris’mus, en 
oyschers, en tukkey, en all. I’ll git dar 
bimeby, en de pavemints ullkeep, ’ca’se dey’s 
gol’, en dey ain’t no thief, en no mof, en no 
rus’ fur ter cranker ob ’em. So sez I, bress 
de Lawd ! I kin wait fur de Cbris’mus ober 
yon’er.” 

Excitable u Little Jinny ” sprang to her 
feet before old Jake bad fairly taken bis seat. 
“ Brudder Bolles,” she sang out in her clear, 
flat treble, “ I rises ter gib my intestermint 
ter dis meet’n’. I wuz a sinner—a po’, los’ 
sinner, keerin’ fur nuffin’ but fine close en 
sech, twell I went off inter de tranch, lack de 
brudder ivhat jes’ spoke. E11 while I wuz in 
de traneb Marse Jesus He cum a-ridin’ by 
in His clia’iot o’ fire, wid His swode buckl’t 
on, en His crown on His haid. En I crope 
out’n de paf, ’ca’se I’s feard He ud jes’ ride 
me down inter de dus’, I uz seeb a sinner. 


gt Wonderful (Bxpevimt Pcrting. 81 

But He see me ; He see me, en He call out 
ter me, ‘ Aw, Jinny/ sez He, ‘ Jinny ! ’ En 
sez I, ‘ Yes, my Lawd.’ Sez He, ‘ Does yer 
know whar yer stan’s?’ Sez I, ‘Yes, my 
Lawd; I’s hangin’ ober hell by de lia’r ob 
my liaid; ober de burnin’ pit/ En sez He, 
‘ Go, en sin no mo’, go back ter Nebo, en tell 
all de brudderin I’s redeemed yer.’ S’ I, 
‘ Yes, my Lawd ! bress de Lawd, oh my 
soul! ’ ” 

Yellow Kelline was not to be outdone by 
the startling experience of “ Little Jinny.” 
She rose at once, a slight, nervous mulatto 
girl, with her handkerchief to her eyes, the 
graceful body in a nimble swing that kept 
time to the tune she unconsciously set to her 
words. 

“ Brudderin, I wuz lay in’ on my baid in 
de cool ob de mawnin’, when I see Marse 
Jesus come ridin’ by on a milk-white horse. 
S’ e, ‘ How you do, Sist’ Kelline ? ’ S’ I, 

‘ I’s toler’ble, thank de Lawd. How is you, 
6 


82 ^ Wonderful Experience greeting. 

Master ? ’ S’ e, ‘ I’s toler’ble ; is de folks all 
well?’ S’ I, 6 Dey’s toler’ble. You’s all 
well, Marster?’ S’ e, ‘ We’s toler’ble.’ 
Den He lean down fum de saddle, en s’ e :— 

“ 4 Whar you been, Sist’ Kelline, 

Dat you been gone so long ? ’ 

“ S’ I:— 

“ ‘Been a-rollin’ en a prayin’ et Jesus’ feet, 

En my soul’s gwine home ter glory.’ 

“ S’ e :— 

“ ‘ Keep a-rollin’ en a-prayin’ et Jesus’ feet, 
Rollin’ en prayin’ et Jesus’ feet, 

Rollin’ en prayin’ et Jesus’ feet, 

My soul’s gwine home ter glory.’ ” 

Slowly, from his seat in the Amen Corner, 
rose Cross-eyed Pete. The sceptic might 
intimate that it was the song of Kelline that 
suggested the thread of old Pete’s experience. 
Be that as it may, he was none the less 
earnest in adding his testimony. Said he, 
his black face aglow : — 

“ Brudderin, I dreampt I wuz daid, an’ et 
I went ter de do’ o’ heab’n. I went straight 
up ter de front do’, ’ca’se de righteous am 


Wflwtoful (Bxyttimt Pertittfl. 83 

bol’ ez a lion, en I wa’n’t ’feard o’ nuffin’. 
En dey ain’t no slier’ff up dar ter haul a 
nigger off ter jail fur nuffin’, neider. En 
when I got ter de do’ I knocked; en Marse 
Jesus He come ter de do’ His own se’f, en 
sez He, i How you do, Unc’ Peter?’ E11 I 
tol’ Him I uz des’ toler’ble, en He sont me 
roun’ ter de kitchin fur ter git warn. En 
dar wuz ole Mis’ Jesus dar, ’en she gimme 
a cup o’ wa’m coffee, en made me set down 
ter de side table en sot out a pone o’ co’n 
bread, en de hock bone o’ de ham Avhat dey all 
hab fur de Chris’mus dinner, en de backbone 
o’ de Chris’mus tukkey, ’stid o’ sabin’ ob it 
fur hash fur breakfus’. Den she ax me all 
’bout my troubles en all, en den sez she:— 

“ ‘ Whar’s you been, Unc’ Peter, 

Dat you been gone so long ? ’ 

“ S’ I:— 

“ ‘ Been a-layin’ in de jail, 

Wait’ll’ fur my bail, 

En my soul’s gwine home ter glory.’ ” 


84 Wcmdcvful t&xytxtom Pccting. 

Old Jordan, fervent if rheumaticky, arose : 
“ Brudderin en sisters! I fotclies good 
tidin’s, ‘ good tidin’s oh gre’t joy which shall 
be ter all people.’ De hook sez ‘ de ole men 
shall see vishuns.’ I hab seed one. In a 
deep sleep, lack de same ez fell on Brudder 
Noey, I wuzcyar’din a tranch up ter heah’n. 
When I sot my foot in de New Jerusalam 
my ole shoes tu’n ter gol’n slippers, en my 
ole close ter a white robe. My ole ha’r wuz 
a crown ob gol’. En de anjuls dey met me 
et de gate ; en dey formed deyse’ves inter 
two lines, wid a paf down de middle fum-me 
ter trabul. En dey all lif’ up de harps dey 
uz houldin’ wid one han’, en de pa’m branch 
dey uz hould’n’ wid tudder. En dey waved 
de pa’ms en strike de harps wid bof han’s ; 
en dey shout, ‘ How you do, Brudder 
Jordan ? ’ Not Unc ’ Jordan—naw, sah; dey 
ain’t no Unclin’ up dar. En dey say, ‘Wel¬ 
come home, Brudder Jordan ; come en git 
yer harp.’ 


Wcnulcvfut Experience fleeting* 85 

“ But I sez ter de anjills, ‘ Stan’ out de 
way dar, cliillun ; lemme git ter de King 
Eli I elbowed myse’f up ter whar He uz 
sett’n’ on de throne jest lookin’ on et de 
glory. En He see me, en He riz up an lielt 
out His lian’, en sez He, 6 How you do, 
Brudder Jordan ? ’ same ez de anjuls. En 
when He done sey dat He moved ter one 
side ter make room fur me, en sez He, ‘ Hab 
a seat on de throne, Brudder Jordan, en res’ 
yose’f whil’st yo’ room’s afixin’ fur yer.’ 
I wuz sorter s’prised some et dat sho, en sez 
I, e I’s jest a nigger, sah, down yander whar 
I come fum.’ 6 Heisli chile ! ’ sez He, 6 dey 
ain’t no such word ez dat up here.’ Den sez 
I, Marster, ef it am true lack yer sey, dat de 
niggers am all tu’n white up here, den what’s 
de meanin’ ob all dem colored gen’lemen 
stan’in’ roun’ here ? ’ Sez He, ‘ Dey’s de 
whi’ folks what useter wuz .’ Den I wuz 
sholy ustonished, en sez I, 6 Brudder, I ain’t 
nebber lieeard ’bout dat; I ’lowed we wuz 


86 WottdwM i&xyttimt |teting. 

all cles plain white erlack.’ Sez he, 6 Umk- 
hmk ! don’ yer b’lieve it, honey; dey swops— 
dey des’ swops places. See dat lean-looking 
nigger ober yonder by de fi’place putt’n’ on 
a stick o’ wood ? Well, dat’s yo ole marster 
what useter wnz. He’s gwine put on ’is 
ap’n an wait on you-alls, soon’s de bell rings 
fur dinner.’ Den sez I, c Lawd, now let dy 
serbent depart in peace, fur my eyes hab seen 
de glory.’ ” 

Mose, the leader in song, was the next to 
take the witness stand. Mose made some 
pretensions to learning; he had a son who 
could read, and a grandson who was a 
“ school-scholar ” in the public schools. 
Mose had acquired oratory, if not English. 

u Bredderin,” he began, “ I wuz imported, 
in a tranch, ter de heabenly Jerusalam. My 
gre’t desire insistin’ oh a wusli ter view de 
glories oh de city, whenst de informalerties 
wuz ober I set myse’f ter de juty ob so doin’. 
It wus suttinly a most in sign if er cant city ter 


& Wonderful Experience Meeting; 87 

look upon. But clat which repealed ter me 
demoest wuz de onpartialness ob it all. Dey 
wa’n’t no upsta’rs en parlors fur de whi’ 
man, wid basemints en kitchins fur de colored 
gent’ min in dat insignificant house ob many 
manshens. All uz des’ de same; one didn’t 
make no mo’ intentions den de tudder. De 
basemints uz all parlors, en de parlors uz all 
basemints ; en dar resisted a strong fambly 
likeness betwixt all o’ de inhabiters ob de 
place—a mos’ strikin’ insemblance. 

“ De wood pile hit lay et de front do’, free 
ter der nigger en de white dest erlack. 
En de nigger wuz called ter de fus’ table, 
same’s as de res’. En de hin ’ouse. wuz 
ez much for de nigger ez de white man. 
No mo’ crop’n’ roun’ ter de back alley 
fur ter slip a chickin off’n de roos’, ’ca’se 
de white man got too many fur his Chris’- 
mus dinner, en de nigger got none . Umk- 
hmk! All dem hins, en pullets, en 
roosters, en fryin’-sizers. All you got ter 


88 gi Womkvful Peking* 

do, jes’ lif’ yer han’ en yope ’em off’n de 
roos’ same’s ef yur put em dar. Umk-hmk! 
E11 de liorgs en de young shoats des de same. 
Umk-hmk! Stan’ out the way dar, chillun! 
Dis worl’s mighty weery. But dar’s Cliris’- 
mus ober yonder; chickin fixin’s fur de 
nigger. No mo’ hin roos’es all dest for the 
white man. Dat’s all I want know ’bout 
heab’n’. Umk-hmk ! my soul’s happy, en I 
want to go home.” 

And while the Christmas bells rang out 
their “good tidings,” who shall say that the 
dusky worshippers, interpreting according 
to their light, had not experienced a foretaste 
of the “ great joy” promised to all men? 


WHO BROKE UP DE MEET’N’? 


Aunt Sylvia told the story, as she sat on 
the doorstep one soft afternoon in June. 
She had come to return the “ cup o’ corn 
meal ” she had borrowed a few days before ; 
and while resting a moment, she related the 
story of the “ scan’l ” that had “ broke up 
de meet’n’, de big meet’n’ ober at the Pisgy 
meet’n’ house, an’ tuk Brudder Simmons 
inter the cote, an’ plumb made dey all furgit 
all about the feet-washin’ what dey alius 
winds up de big meet’n’ wid, ever’ onct a 
year.” 

“ A ‘ feet-washing’ ? What is a feet-wash- 
ing, Aunt Sylvia ? ” I asked. 

“ De Lor’, honey, don’t you know ? But 
den I furgit you’s a Meferdis’, en de feet- 



90 


m<r grohc tU Ptctv ? 

washin’s am Babtis’. De Meferdis’, dey 
hab de failin’ fum graces instid. Well, 
honey, it’s dis er way. De sacerment, bit’s 
fur the cleanin’ ob de soul; de feet-wasliin’, 
hit’s for de cleanin’ ob de body” 

“ Ah ! I see. And did the ‘ feet-wash- 
ing’ break up the meeting ? ” I asked, some¬ 
what startled at this unusual interpretation 
of the Scriptures. She laughed ; her fat, 
black face dropped forward, her eyes closed, 
her body swinging in that odd way which 
belongs solely to her race. 

“ De feet-washin’ break up de meet’n’ ? 
Naw, honey, dat it didn’t, dat it didn’t.” 

“ Then what did ? ” 

“ Dat’s it!” she exclaimed, “ dat’s dest 
it. Dat’s dest what we-all wants to know. 
Dat’s what de cote wanted ter know; who 
broke up de meetfn ’ f Some sey hit uz 
Brer Ben Lytle; en some sey hit uz Brer Ike 
Martin; en some sey hit uz de widder Em’line 
Spurlock ; en some sey hit uz jes’ Ike’s fise 


91 


Who §V0 U mir At ? 

dorg; en den ag’in some sey hit uz de sing- 
in’ ; some sey de preacher hisse’f done hit; en 
some sey dis, en some sey dat, till dey fetches 
it ter de cote. En de cote figgered en fig- 
gered on it, en den it sey cord’n ter de bes’ 
hit kin extrac’ fnm de eminence befo’ it, wuz, 
dat de one ez broke up de meet’n’, en oughter 
be persecuted en incited by de gran’ jury 
fur de disturbmint ob de public worshup, am 
ole Mis’ Goodpaschur’s big domernicker 
rooster, what nobody ain’t never s’picioned, 
case’n o’ hit livin’ ’way ’cross de creek, on 
de side todes de railroad, wid ole Mis’ Good- 
paschur. En de cote, hit noller prostituted 
de case agin de preacher, what de sisters in¬ 
ferred aginst him in dey charges ; en dey tuk 
en laid hit on de domernicker instid. 

“Hit uz dis erway: You see, Ike Martin, 
he wuz ’gaged ter chop wood fur Mis’ Goocl- 
paschur, ’count o’ lett’n’ uv him haul off’n 
her lan’. Ike, he gits a load fur ever’ load 
lie cuts. En hit ’pears in de eminence how 


92 


TO* %\\) At P*etV ? 

Ike went by ter cut some wood mighty early 
in de m a wilin’, de day ob de feet-washin’, 
’count o’ cfoin’ ter meet’n’. En he fotched 
little Eli, his boy, ’long wid ’im ter pick up 
de chips, case’n Mis’ Goodpaschur alius gibs 
de chile a bite o’ warm bre’kfus’ when he 
pick up de chips fur her, seein’ ez Ike aint 
got no wife ter cook fur him. En Eli he 
fotched his fise dog—thinkin’ ’bout de 
bre’kfus’, I reckin. En Mis’ Goodpaschur, 
she axed Eli ter keep off de calf off. E11 
while Eli, he uz wraslin’ wid de calf, en no¬ 
body ain’ never thought ob de domernicker 
up in de yaller peach tree, all ’t onct dar 
wuz a mighty fluster up ober dey haids, en 
de big domernick come teetlin’ en clawin’ 
down on ter de roof ob de cow-slied wid a 
pow’ful healfy ‘ How-dy-do-oo-hoo! ’ 

“ Ole Mis’ Goodpaschur, she uz dat upsot 
she tumbled off’n de milkin’ stool, forrards 
agin’ de cow ; en de cow, she kicked little 
Eli in de liaid, en Eli, he hollered till his 


93 


mo §v 0 fcc mjr de Pcctv ? 

daddy come ter see de incasion ob de fuss. 
En he tell Eli ter sliet up; but he say lie 
ain’ gwine sliet up tell he kill dat cow; lie 
say lie ‘ boun’ ter bus’ it wide op’n.’ 

“En den Mis’ Goodpaschur, she say she 
slioly have him tuk up en jailed ef lie tetch 
dat ar cow. E11 so Ike lie tuk en tuk Eli off 
ter de feet-washin’ fur ter keep ’im out o’ 
mischeef. 

“ Eli de fise dog, hit went ’long too wid 
Eli, ’cause dat dog slio’ gwine whar Eli go. 
E11 dat’s jes’ how it all come ’bout; ef dey 
all hadn’t come ter meet’ll’, ober ter Pisgy, 
dey ain’ been no fuss, en no scan’l, en no 
talk. 

“ De domernick skeered ole Mis’, ole Mis’ 
skeered de cow, de cow kicked Eli, Eli hol¬ 
lered fur his daddy, his daddy tuk him ter 
de meet’n’ ! en dar wuz de fuss all wait’n’ 
en raidy. 

“ ’Twuz de big meet’n’, hit ez don’t come 
’cep’ onct a year. Brudder Simmons wuz 


94 


mo mp iic ? 

holdin’ fo’th, en jes’ a-spasticerlatin’ ter de 
sinners en denunciat’n’ ob de Scriptures. En 
he wnz jes’ p’intedly gibbin’ de gospil, bilin’ 
hot, ter de gals en boys, de ongodly young 
folks ez wuz at de dancin’ party down ter 
Owlsley’s Holler de night befo’. 

“ Dey uz all dar, gigglin’ en actin’ mighty 
bad. En de preacher, he telled how he rid 
froo de Holler goin’ ter Brudder Job Saw¬ 
yer’s house fur ter put up, en he heeard de 
tompin’ en de singin’, en he telled ’em how 
bad it all sound. He sey, dey uz singin’ 
somef’n’ bout “ Granny, ull yo dog bite ? ” 
E11 he mek de p’int ter tell ’em uv dat ez’ll 
bite more badder en any dog—it air de wraf ! 
de wraf ter come ! de fire dat’ll burn, en 
burn, en neber stop burnin’. 

“ En the Chrischuns, dey wuz seyin’ 
‘ Amen ! ’ en dest waitin’ wid dey mouf wide 
op’n fur de trumpit ter blow fur ter start 
’em all home todes de glory. En dar wuz 
de sinner convicted, moanin’, wait’n fur de 


m* grofce mp de PeetW ? 95 

call ter resh ter de moaners’ bench. En dar 
wuz de dancin’ crown, col’, col’, col’ ez ice, and 
not thinkin’ ob de jedgmint day. Yes, dey 
wnz all dar—de work, de flesh, en de deb- 
bul, I reckin. 

“ En dar wuz de moaners’ bench—fur de 
feet-washin’, hit come las’—en de moaners’ 
bench wuz dar, stretched plumb ’crost de 
house, wid some clean straw throwed roun’ 
bout’ll it fur de consolerdation ob dem ez 
wuz come ter wras’le like Marse Jacob. 

“ En Ike, he uz dar, en Eli uz dar, en — 
de fise dog uz dar. Yes, de fise uz behavin’ 
mighty well; a pow’ful frien’ly, onhankerous 
lookin’ little critter, curled up on de fur eend 
ob de moaners’ bench jes’ in front ob Eli, 
en not seyin’ a blessed word ter ’sturb no¬ 
body. En de widder Spurlock, she uz dar, 
in her new moanin’ dress en a raid ribben in 
her bonnit. She done been sett’n’ up ter 
Ike ebersence his ’oman died; enEli, he jes’ 
p’intedly despises de groun’ she tromps on. 


96 


m* xtc p**tv ? 

“ Waal, den, when Brudder Simmons, he 
begin ter exterminate de Chrischuns ter £0 

o o 

out inter de byways en de hedgerows, en ter 
furrit out de sinners en impel ’em ter come 
inter de gospul feast, ever’body knowed he 
uz talkin’ ’bout de boys en gals what danced 
‘ Granny, ull yo dog bite ’ all de night befo’. 
Ever’body knowed dat, inspectin’ ob de wid- 
der Spurlock; she plumb mistuk de meanin’ 
ob de call. Fur ’bout dat time, some ob de 
wraslin’ ones down ’t de fur eend ob de 
moaners’ bench fum der fise, foun’ grace, en 
begin ter claw de a’r, en ter roll in de straw 
like. 

“ De fise be looked up, much ez ter sey, 
c What dat mean ? ’ 

“ En den Mis’ Spurlock, she jumped up, 
flung off her bonnit, en wen’ tarin’ cross de 
bouse ter wbar Ike wuz sett’ll’ by Eli on de 
bench. 

“ Down she flopped, en flung hersef onter 
Ike’s shoulder en begin ter boiler, ‘ Glory ! 


97 


mo §vohc mp etc PcctW ? 

glory ! Bress de Lord! I loves ever’body, 

ever’body, ever ’- body ! ’ en jes’ poundin’ 

Ike on de back lack same’s lie uz a peller, 
else a bolster she uz beat’ll’ up. 

“ De fise dog riz ter a sett’n’ poscher, 
sett’n’ on de bin’ laigs, his tail sorter oneasy 
like, en his mouf workin’. 

“ Den I see Eli lean ober en put his mouf 
ter de Use’s year, ’en sey, sorter easy like, 
sez he, ‘ S-i-c-k ’im ! ’ Land o’ Moses ! ef 
dat dog didn’t fa’rly fly. He danced, en he 
yelped, en he barked, en he barked. He lit 
inter dat widder-’oman like a mad hornet. I 
tell yer, he made de fur fly. En den dat 
Eli, he jes’ titled ob his liaid back en laffed 
out loud. 

“ De gals fum Owlsley’s Holler giggled, en 
de moaners peeped fum bellin’ dey’s han’- 
kercheefs ter see what uz de matter ; en eben 
one ob de preachers hisse’f smiled, while Brer 
Ben Lytle, ez wuz kerzort’n’ ob de moaners, 

he jes’ drapped down in de straw en roared 

*7 



98 


m* mp de p**tv ? 

till he had ter hoi’ his sides, fur ter keep fum 
bust’n’ wide op’n. Yer could a lieeard him 
haff’n a mile, I reckin. 

“ Dar wuz one didn’t laff; dat uz Brer 
Simmons. He jumped up quick ez he could, 
en sez he :— 

“ 6 Sing somethin’; ’ thinkin’ ter drown out 
the fuss. ‘ Sing, bredderin ! Sing dat good 
ole song, “ Granny, will yo’ dog bite.” ’ 

“ En afore he could see what he had sed, 
dem Owlsley Holler gals set up ter singin’, 
loud nuff ter raise de daid, while de boys, 
dey begin ter pat:— 

Chippie on de railroad, 

Chippie on de flo’, 

Granny, will yo’ dog bite ? 

JVo, chile , no ! 

“B rudder Simmons’ eyes look lack dey 
boun’ ter pop out’n his haid; he lif’ up his 
han’ up, so, en motion ’em ter stop. But dat 
only mek dey-all ter sing de more louder, en 
ter pat the more harder :— 


99 


TO* frolic mjr At ? 

’Possum up a ’simmon tree, 

Oh, my Joe! 

Granny, will yo’ dog bite ? 

JVo, chile , no! 

“ Den de Chrischuns, dey got mad. Dey 
’low Brudder Simmons been et de dance his 
own se’f, else dat song wouldn’t slip off’n his 
mouf so ’ily. Dey wuz plumb scan’lized. 
Dey wuz, shore. En someun sey, out 
loud:— 

“ ‘ Put ’im out! Put ’im out! ’ En de 
word uz tuk up by de whole band o’ Chris¬ 
chuns, exclud’n’ de very moaners deyse’ves. 
En afore he knowed it dey jes’ lit inter ’im, 
drug him out’n de pulpit, en pitched him out’n 
de meet’n house door, en shet it to, in his face , 
namin’ ob him all de time fur a Jonah. En 
den dey fotched it up in de cote, persecuted 
ob de preacher fur disturbin’ ob public wor¬ 
ship. Dey sho’ did. 

“ En when dey fotched it up, de preacher 
sey he ain’ done hit. Den de cote p’intedly 

L.ofC. 


100 


Wu r groto mjr to ? 

ax, * Who bruk up de meet’n’ ? ’ En some 
sey dis un, en some sey dat, en dey all sey dey 
reckin de preacher wuz de mos’ ter blame— 
de witnesses all sey dat. 

“ But Brudder Simmons, he sey he didn’ 
mean ter gib out dat song. He uz dest a- 
thinkin’ about dat wicked dance dey-all ben 
llabin , in de Holler, en lie uz frustrated by 
de fise dog barkin’, en when he went ter sey 
‘ Sing dat good ole song, “ Gre’t God , dat 
awfid day ob wraf,”’ he furgot, en sed, 
“ Granny, will yo’ dog bite,” bein’ frustrated 
’bout de fise en de dance. 

“ So den de cote axed him, ‘ Who bruk 
up de meet’n’ ? ’ En he sey ef he bleeged ter 
lay de blame he ud lay it ter de dog . He sey 
de fise dog bruk up de meet’n’. Den I gibs 
my intestiment, en I sey it wuzn’t de dog, it 
uz Eli fur sickin’ on de dog, ’case I heeard 
’im. En Eli he sey it uz de widder Em’line 
Spurlock fur liuggin’ ob his pappy. E11 de 
widder sey it uz Ike fur fetchin’ Eli ter meet’n’. 


101 


mo gtohc m\) ttc ^Xni'xC ? 

En Ike sey it uz ole Mis’ Goodpaschur fur 
tryin’ ter jail Eli, else lie wouldn’t a-fotched 
de chile ter meet’n’. 

“ Mis’ Goodpaschur sey it uz Eli, fur sayin’ 
he ’u’d kill de cow. 

“ En Eli, he sey de cow uz ter blame fur 
kickin’ uv ’im, en ole Mis’ Goodpaschur fur 
kickin’ ob de cow. 

“En den ole Mis’ Goodpaschur, she sey 
’twuz de domernicker crowed on de roof ez 
skeered her olf’n de stool en made her bump 
ag’inst de cow. 

“ Now, den! de cote hit sey de eminence 
am all in, en it begin ter argerfy de case. 
E11 it argerfied might’ly ; do de lawyers kep’ 
a-laffin’ en laffin’, tell de judge shuck a stick 
at ’em ; en he hit on de pulpit ob de cote- 
room wid it, en looked mighty ser’us, when 
his mushtash didn’t shake, lack it sorter 
done. 

“ En one ob de lawyers riz up en made out 
de case:— 


102 


Wm §vohc mp At Pectin’ ? 

66 6 De rooster crowed ! ole mis’ jumped 
ag’in’ de cow; de cow kicked Eli; Eli want 
ter kill de cow ; ole mis’ want ter jail Eli; 
Ike fotclied him ter meet’n’, wid de dog; de 
widder hugged Ike ; de dog bit de widder; 
de gals laffed; de preacher gin out de wrong 
chune; de sisters fit de preacher, en de meet’n’ 
bruk up. En now/ sez he, ‘ who bruk up de 
meet’n’ ? ’ 

“ Den de judge riz up, en sez he, ‘ Ef de 
preacher hadn’t gib out de wrong chune de 
gals wouldn’t a-sung it. 

“ 6 De preacher wouldn’t done it ef de dog 
hadn’t barked. 

“ ‘ De dog wouldn’t barked ef Eli hadn’t 
sicked ’im on. 

“ i Eli wouldn’t set ’im on ef de widder 
hadn’t hugged his daddy. 

“ ‘ De widder wouldn’t done dat ef he ud 
stayed et home wid Eli. 

“ 6 Ef he’d stayed home wid Eli, ole Mis’ 
Goodpaschur ud put Eli in jail. 


103 


mo $vokc mir rte iwtV ? 

“ ‘ Ole Mis’ Gooclpaschur wouldn’t do dat 
ef he hadn’t sey he ud kill de cow. 

“ ‘ He wouldn’t sey dat ef de cow hadn’t 
kicked ’im. 

“‘ De cow wouldn’t kicked ’im ef ole mis 
hadn’t kicked de cow. 

“ ‘ Ole mis’ wouldn’t done dat efde domer- 
nick hadn't crowed on de roof' 

“ Den de judge sey, ‘ Wid all de eminence 
afore me, de exclusion reached am dat de 
domernicker am de culvert, en de case ag’inst 
de defender am noller prostituted.’ 

“ En I sey ef de domernick am de culvert, 
lack he sey, den who broke up de rneet’n’ ? ” 


RAGS. 


His first recollection of anything was of 
the Bottom, the uninclosed acres just with¬ 
out the city limits, the Vagabonclia of the 
capital, and the resort of numberless stray 
cattle, en route to Bonedom. It was the 
cattle first called into active play those pe¬ 
culiar characteristics which marked the early 
career of my hero, and gave evidence of 
other characteristics, equally unusual, lying 
dormant perhaps in the young heart of him, 
but lacking the circumstance or surrounding 
of fate necessary to their awakening. 

In one room of a tumble-down old row of 

buildings that had once gloried in the name 

of “ Mills,” our Rags was born, among the 

rats and spiders and vermin, to say nothing 
104 



105 


9»&. 

of the human vermin breeding loathsome 
life among its loathsome surroundings. And 
indeed, what else was to be expected, since 
life takes its color from the color that it rests 
upon? Just as the spring in the Bottom, 
where man and beast quench alike their 
thirst, becomes a fever-breeding pool when 
the accumulated filth about it gets too much 
for even the blessed water. It was here that 
Rags was born. He owed his name to his 
clothes, and to the kindred souls of the Bot¬ 
tom who had detected a fitness in the nick¬ 
name, which, by the bye, soon became the 
only name he possessed. If he had ever had 
another nobody took the trouble to remember 
it, while as for him, he found the name good 
enough for all his purposes. 

From the time he could use his legs well 
he was out among the cattle; fetching water 
in an old oyster cup that he had raked out 
from an ash heap, for such of the strays as 
were dying of thirst; or chasing the express 


106 


trains across the Bottom, saluting with his 
one little rag of a petticoat the engineer on the 
tall trestle where the trains were constantly 
crossing and recrossing the Bottom; but 
giving his best attention always to the crip¬ 
pled cows and the old horses abandoned to 
the pitiless death of the Bottom. Any one 
who had chosen to study his character might 
have detected the humane instinct at a very 
early age. The instinct of justice, too, was 
rather strongly developed, also at an early 
age. 

Did I say he was a negro ? A mulatto 
with a clear olive complexion, kinky hair, 
and eyes that were small and black, and 
showed humor and pathos and fire all in one 
sharp flash. He was reared in a queer 
school, and the lessons he learned had 
strange morals to them. It is no wonder 
they worked unusual results. 

The first patient that came under Bags’ 
ministration was an old cow which had been 


107 


abandoned to the mercy of the Bottom, and 
which, in an attempt to return to its un¬ 
worthy owner perhaps, had been caught by 
a passing engine and tossed from the trestle, 
thereby getting its back broken. Rags 
faithfully plied the tin cup all the afternoon, 
only to see at evening the poor old beast 
breathe its last, leaving its bones to bleach 
upon the common graveyard of its kind, the 
Bottom. 

The next morning Rags’ old grandmother 
found the boy engaged in rather a promising 
attempt to fire the bridge, to wreck the car, 
that killed the cow, that roamed the wild, 
that Rags ruled. 

When she had pulled him away from the 
trestle, and had dragged him home and 
thrashed him soundly, what she said was, 
“ You fool you, don’t you know they’ll jail 
you fur life if they ketch you tryin’ to burn 
that bridge ? ” 

If they caught him. Rags had learned 


108 


shrewdness if not virtue; henceforth he 
resolved not to abandon rascality, but 
to make sure that he was not overtaken in 
it. 

His life from the time he could remember 
was a series of beatings and a season of 
neglect. Of his mother he retained no 
recollection whatever; he had at a very 
early stage of the life-game fallen to the 
mercy of his grandmother and her rod. 
When he was not being beaten he was roam¬ 
ing the Bottom, along with the other stray 
cattle—they of the soulless kind. 

Once he remembered a party of very fine 
folk that had come out in carriages to look 
after the old horses that had been cast out 
by the owners they had served while service 
was in them. A great to-do had been made 
over the condition of the dumb things found 
there, and more than one heartless owner 
had been forced to carry home and care for 
the beast that had served him. But the little 


109 


human stray that fate had abandoned to 
destruction—there was no humane society 
whose business it was to look after him. 
But then the cities are so full, so crowded 
with these little vagabond-strays ; what is to 
be done about it? 

So Rags drifted along with the fresh cattle 
that wandered into his domain, until one 
morning in January, when he awoke from 
sleep without being beaten and dragged from 
his bed for a worthless do-nothing. He sat 
up among the bedclothes that made his 
pallet and wondered what had happened. It 
was broad daylight; the sun streamed in at 
the curtainless window; while over in the 
city the shrill, sharp sound of whistles 
proclaimed the noon. In all his life he had 
never had such a sleep. The wonder of it 
quite stupefied him. He soon remembered, 
however, that a reckoning would be required; 
the wonder was that the reckoning had not 
already been called for. He sat up, rubbing 


110 


his eyes and looking about him. Over in 
the corner stood his grandmother’s bed; the 
covers were drawn up close about a figure, 
long, rigid, distinctly outlined under the faded 
covers. Sleep never yet gave a body that 
stiff, unreal pose—only the one sleep. The 
old grandmother had fallen upon that sleep. 

After her death Rags found a shelter with 
a very old negress whom he called “ Aunt 
Jane,” a cripple, who lived over in the city, 
in a little den of a room off one of the chief 
thoroughfares, where progress was too busy 
to ferret out such small concerns. From the 
very first Rags was fond of the woman, 
possibly because she did not beat him. 

And now it was that he began really to 
live. In an incredibly short time he became 
an expert sneak thief. The evil in him 
developed with indulgence. And so too— 
alas, the wonder of it!—did the humane. 
He was a strange contradiction ; in color he 
would have been called “ a rare combination.” 


9m* 111 

He would risk his life to rescue a child from 
peril, and he would risk his liberty for the 
penny in the child’s pink fingers. He was 
not cruel; he had no fight against the rich. 
He only wanted to keep Aunt Jane and him¬ 
self in food, and rags sufficient to cover 
their nakedness. He was not grasping; on 
the contrary, when he had more than was 
absolutely necessary for their immediate 
needs, he would give a bite to a less fortunate 
comrade of the gutters. He did not do this 
with any idea of show either, which cannot 
be said of all who give to beggars; he gave 
because of the humane that was a part of 
him; having given, he never gave the matter 
another thought. 

He had a wonderful mind for deducing 
conclusions, as well as for refusing con¬ 
clusions founded upon premises that were 
unsatisfactory to his ideas of justice. 

One morning, when Rags’ years had gone 
as far as twelve, a great circus came to the 


112 




city in which fate had decreed him citizen- 
ship. Rags made one of the hundreds who 
followed the great procession of cages show¬ 
ing the painted faces of monkeys, apes, and 
ourang-outangs, moving majestically down 
the crowded street, halting now and then, as 
the law required, to give right of way to a 
passing street-car. 

Following the procession, pressing close to 
the cages, watching the wonderful pictured 
monkeys, an eager, absorbed look upon his 
face, was a little boy. He could not have 
been more than six years of age, and had 
evidently escaped from his nurse and been 
crowded off the pavement into the almost 
equally crowded street. His rich, dainty 
clothing, his carefully curled, bright hair, no 
less than the delicate, patrician features 
proclaimed him a child of the upper classes. 
Nobody noticed him ; nobody but Rags, inch¬ 
ing along by the chimpanzees’ cage. Rags’ 
keen eye had caught the glint of silver in the 


gu0*. n3 

little animal-lover’s hand. It was the child’s 
money to get into the circus, and which, as 
an inducement to manliness perhaps, he had 
been allowed to carry. 

“ Brr-rr-rr-rr ! ” sneered Rags. “ No use 
o’ that. Kin crope under the tent, easier’n 
eat’n. That’s how I do.” And he inched 
nearer, his eyes never once removed from the 
small, half-clinched hand holding the bit of 
silver. The circus was for the moment forgot¬ 
ten ; the painted monkeys grinned on, unob¬ 
served by Rags; the lion lashed its tawny 
sides in malicious anticipation of a broken bar 
or an inadvertent lifting of the cage door ; 
the humped-backed camels in the rear of the 
procession plodded along under the per¬ 
suasions of the boys in orange and purple 
and gay scarlet mounted upon their unwill¬ 
ing backs. Rags was unconscious of it all 
—and of the car coming down the street in 
a crackle and flash of electricity. 

The first thing he did see clearly was a 
8 


114 


little golden head go down under the strong, 
lightning-fed wheels. He gave a wild, un¬ 
earthly shriek and dashed to the rescue. A 
hundred throats took up the cry; a hundred 
feet hurried to help. But too late. A little 
motionless bundle of gay clothes and bright 
hair, with crimson spots upon the brightness, 
lay upon the track when the fiery wheels had 
passed. And near by lay Rags, his eyes 
seeing nothing, and the toes of one foot 
lying the other side the track. 

It was months before he could hobble 
about again ; but the very first trip he made 
was to limp down to the place where the 
accident had occurred, and, leaning against 
the iron fence of a yard that opened off the 
sidewalk, to go over the whole scene again. 
Had the boy escaped ? he wondered; and 
what had become of the silver ? He fancied 
it might be out there in the gray slush some¬ 
where, together with his own poor toes. At 
the thought of them he grew faint and sick, 




115 


leaning against the fence to prevent himself 
falling into the gutter. 

While he stood thus a physician’s buggy 
drew up to the sidewalk, and a man got out. 
He saw the very miserable-looking boy lean¬ 
ing upon a crutch and stopped. 

“ Are you sick? ” he asked. 

“ No,” said Rags, “ I ain’t sick.” Then 
as the man was about to pass on he rallied 
his courage and said, “ Where’s the boy wuz 
hurt that day ? ” 

“ The hoy ? ” 

“ The boy what the car runged over; 
where’s he at? ” 

u Ah ! The little boy that was run over 
the day of the circus you mean ? He is 
dead. The car killed him. The company 
will have it to pay for.” 

Dead ! The little brown face twitched 
nervously; the sight of it set the physician’s 
memory twitching also. 

“ Now I wonder,” said he, “ if you are 


116 


not the boy who got hurt trying to save the 
little fellow ? That was a brave act, my 
boy.” 

There was a mist in the vagabond’s 
eyes. 

“ I couldn’t, though,” said he. “ Them 
wheels wuz too quick for me. They— 

kotched—uv—him-.” He drew his old 

sleeve across his face; he had been sick and 
was still weak and nervous ; it was a new 
thing with Rags to cry. 

“ Never you mind,” laying his hand upon 
the boy’s head. “ It was a brave, grand 
thing to do. It will stand for you with God 
some day ; remember that, if you are ever in 
trouble. You did your best; you tried to 
save a fellow-being; you gave up one of 
your feet almost; crippled yourself for life 
in order to rescue another from death ; and 
although you failed, you still did your best. 
That is all God cares to know; the deed 
stands with God for just what we mean it. 



117 

He will count it for you some day, God 
will!” 

The brown, tear-wet face looked into his 
with a strangely puzzled expression. 

“ God? ” said Rags, “ who’s God ? ” 

“ Boy, where were you brought up—not 
to know the good God, who watches over 
you, over everybody, and loves us all, and cares 
for us? ” He paused, looked down into the 
knowing little old face, and wondered what 
manner of trick the beggar was trying to 
put upon him. 

Suddenly the dark face lighted. Rags 
had turned questioner. “ An’ you say God 
sees ever’thin’ ? He seen the car what 
runged over the little kid ? God wuz a- 
watchin’? Could God ’a’ stopped it? ” 

u Certainly.” 

The dark face took on the first vindictive 
expression it had ever worn. Rags had been 
asked to believe too much; the mystery of 
God’s measures was too vast for the street 


118 


child’s comprehension; his conclusion was 
deduced only from the most humane of pre¬ 
mises. 

“ Damn God,” said he. “ I wouldn’t a 
let it runged over a cow, nor a dog, nor a 
rat; an’ I ain’t nothin’, I ain’t.” 

“ You’re a wicked sinful boy, that’s what 
you are, and you ought to be-” 

“ It’s a lie,” said Rags stoutly. “ I ain’t 
done nothin’ half as mean as God done. 
Psher! Damn God, I say.” 

“ Papers ? Papers ? Want a paper, 

mister ?” 

The newsboy’s insistent cry had to be 
silenced ; when that was done the good man 
who had stopped to speak the “word in 
season ” looked to see Rags limping down 
the street upon the feet maimed in humanity’s 
cause, and quite too far away to recall. He 
was half tempted to get into his buggy and 
go after him ; there was that about the boy 
that was strangely and strongly appealing. 



119 


But he considered: “ The city is full of 
vagabonds like him ; a man cannot shoulder 
them all ; after all nobody knows that he is 
really the boy he professes to be; the papers 
said that boy was carried off by an old 
negress, a cripple, nobody could tell where.” 
Rags passed on and out of his sight forever. 

The matter ended there, so far as the man 
knew. But Rags, hobbling down the street, 
gave expression to his thought with sudden 
vehemence. 

u Somef’n’s alius a-killin’ o’ somef’n’,” 
said he. “ Firs’ it wuz a cow ; then it wuz 
a boy; somef’n’s wrong.” 

He had no idea wherein the wrong lay; 
he had never heard of Eden and the great 
First Cause; but he had witnessed two 
tragedies. 

He was able to throw away his crutch 
after awhile, but was painfully lame, and he 
was never quite able to shut out the vision 
of a little golden head under a whirl of rush- 


120 


ing, fiery wheels. Another thing that he 
remembered was that God could have pre¬ 
vented the catastrophe. 

With the winter Aunt Jane grew so feeble 
that Rags was forced to add begging to his 
list of accomplishments. Day in, day out, 
his stub toes travelled up and down the 
sleety pavements in search of food, and a 
few pennies whereby to keep a spark of fire 
on the hearth before which the old negress 
sat in her rope-bottomed chair trying to keep 
warmth in her pain-racked limbs. 

It was Christmas day and the shops were 
closed ; even the fruit-venders were off duty 
in the forenoon, so that Rags found begging 
a profitless employment that morning. At 
noon he had not tasted food since the night 
before, nor had old Jane. He looked in at 
one o’clock to rake over the ashes and hand 
her a cup of water. She still sat before the 
hearth, her feet thrust in among the warm 
ashes. The old face looked strangely gray 


121 


and weary. Rags felt that she was starving. 
She looked up to say, in that half-affection¬ 
ate way that had made Rags a son to her, 
“Neb’ min’, son, I ain’ so hongry now; 
mebby someun gwine gib you a nickle dis 
ebenin’ anyhow.” 

Her faith sent him out again to try for it. 
At three o’clock he passed a house with glass 
doors opening down to the street, revealing 
a scene which, to Rags’ hungry eyes, was the 
most royal revelling. Some children were 
having a Christmas dinner-party. The table 
was spread with the daintiest of luxuries— 
oranges, grapes, and the golden bananas ; 
cakes that were frosted like snow; candies 
of every kind and color. So much ; so much 
that would never be eaten, and he asked for 
so little! What beggar doesn’t know the 
feeling ? Around the table a group of 
happy children toyed with the food for 
which Rags was starving; he watched them 
through the glass door like a hungry bear, 


122 


yet not thinking of himself and his own 
great hunger. He was thinking how just 
one of those brown loaves heaped upon the 
side-table would put new life into the old 
woman at home. Had there been the 
slightest chance for stealing a loaf, Rags 
would have spent not a moment of time at 
the glass door more than was necessary to 
possess himself of the coveted feast. 

He watched a white-aproned waiter care¬ 
fully slice a loaf and slip a thin piece of ham 
between two of the narrow slices and serve 
to the overfed children, who nibbled a 
bite out of their sandwiches and threw them 
aside for the daintier knickknacks. The 
sight of the wasted food almost drove him 
mad. Oh, to get behind that plate glass for 
one moment!—for one chance at the bread 
which the rich man’s child had thrown away ! 
He felt as though he could have killed some¬ 
body if that would have given him the 
food. 


123 


Then, without warning, without any sort 
of volition on his part, there came to him a 
recollection of the man who had told him 
about God. Why not try if there was any 
truth in what the man had said ? Surely 
God would never find a more propitious time 
for exercising His power. He was ignorant 
alike of creeds and conditions ; he was simply 
trying God as God, and all-powerful; dis¬ 
robed of all things earthy and impossible. 

“ God,” said he, “ don’t you see ? Don’t 
you know they’ve got it all, more than they 
kin eat? An’ don’t you know Aunt Jane 
is starvin’ ? I want some of it, God! I 
want it fur her, fur Aunt Jane. Give it to 
me. He said you kin give it to me, God. 
God ! God! God! I say, give it to me, fur 
Aunt Jane.” 

As the crude petition ended the aproned 
waiter stepped to the side-door with a plate 
of scraps in his hand and whistled softly to a 
little terrier dog that came frisking up to 


124 


3 m 

get them. The man had no sooner dis- 
appeared within the door than Rags seized 
upon the cast-out bits. The dog resented 
the intrusion upon his rights in a low growl 
that brought the waiter to the door again. 
Rags made one dash for the precious heap 
before he disappeared around the corner. 
Safe out of sight he took an inventory of his 
possessions; half a slice of bread, a filbert, a 
lemon-rind, a banana with a spoiled spot on 
one end, and a half-eaten pickle. A pitiful 
mixture for which to risk his liberty, but his 
heart beat with jubilance that found expres¬ 
sion in words as he hurried off home with 
his treasures : 

“I got it, anyhow,” he was mumbling. 
“ You wouldn’t git it fur a pore ole nigger 
as wuz starvin’, but I got it, Mr. God; I 
stole it fum the doers.” 

The maimed foot came down upon a bit 
of ice that must have brought him to the 
ground with a smart thump but for a hand 


125 


that was put out to stay him—a strong, safe, 
woman’s hand; the hand of a lady; white, 
soft, bejewelled. It rested for a moment 
upon Rags’ tattered old sleeve; the velvet 
of her wrap brushed his cheek. In all his 
hard little life he had never felt anything 
like it. There was about her that presence 
of cleanliness which attaches to some women 
like a perfume. 

“ Are you hurt, little hoy?” she asked. 

At the voice’s sweetness the dark eyes 
lifted to hers suddenly filled with tears. 
Like a far-off gleam of light it came to him 
that, after all, there might be a side of 
humanity with which he had never come in 
contact; a something responding to some¬ 
thing within himself, deep down, unknown, 
unnamed, like the glorious possibilities 
slumbering unchallenged within his own 
benighted little soul. 

The owner of the voice stood looking 
down a moment at the queer, silent little 


126 


figure, the rags, with the tawny-brown skin 
showing through, the maimed foot, and the 
tears which the little beggar staunchly 
refused to let fall. She was young and 
beautiful; she belonged to God’s great 
army of good women whom the less philan¬ 
thropic are pleased to denominate “ cranks.” 

“What is your name, boy?” she asked, 
releasing the tattered sleeve. 

“ Rags.” 

The pathos of the reply, and the name’s 
great fitness, appealed to her more than any 
beggar’s plea he could have framed. 

She thrust her hand into the pocket of her 
velvet wrap and took from it her purse. 

“You are to buy yourself something to 
eat, and then you are to come to me— there . 
Anybody can show you the place.” 

She placed a half-dollar and a white visit¬ 
ing card in his hand, and passed on before 
Rags could fashion a reply ; even had there 
been anything for him to say. His usually 


127 


nimble tongue had no words for the great 
event that had come into his life, but the 
quick brain had opened to receive a thought 
—a thought which, like fire, carried all his 
fierce doubts before it. 

“ He heard me ! He heard me !—God 
did” 

It had come direct, swift, certain. And 
the knowledge of prayer answered thrilled 
him with a strange, sweet awe that was 
almost fearful in its intensity. The man 
had spoken truly; there was a God; He 
had given him food and help for Aunt Jane. 
Ah ! He was a good God, though He let 
the little boy be killed ; perhaps he should 
know why some day, when he came to know 
Him better. He would have many things 
to ask Him, many things to tell Him—this 
good God that kept them from starving. 
He had not thought to throw away the 
scraps he had taken from the dog nor 
stopped to buy the dinner of which he stood 


128 


in such sore need. The knowledge of food 
possible had served to blunt the edge of 
hunger. He only wanted to get home with 
his wonderful news, to get a bite for Aunt 
Jane ; and then by and by, when she could 
spare him, he would find the lady. 

He pushed open the door and entered, 
calling the good news as he went. The old 
negress was sitting just as he had left her in 
the big chair before the fireless hearth. She 
neither moved nor spoke, but sat with her 
head leaned back against the chair, mouth 
open, and the sightless eyes staring, unsee¬ 
ing, away into that mystery where none 
might follow. Instantly he recognized that 
she was dead. He stood looking at her in 
awe, stricken, silenced, frightened ; not at 
death but at life, which he began to under¬ 
stand was something too deep and vast and 
terrible for him. It was the second time 
that death had met him thus, the third time 
they two had faced each other without 


3m* 


129 


warning or preparation. The persistency 
with which it seemed to trail and pursue him 
sent a kind of superstitious thrill through 
him. What a tragedy in a nutshell his life 
had been ! 

He glanced from the changed, dead face 
to his full, clinched hands, and slowly his 
fingers opened. The silver rang upon the 
hearth bricks and disappeared quickly in the 
fireless white ashes, as though fleeing from 
the new presence in the room. The broken 
bits of food lay upon the floor at the dead 
woman’s feet, and the lady’s white visiting 
card fell, face up, forgotten, as with a wild 
cry Rags turned and fled—away from death, 
away into the ice-crusted, frozen street; away 
from life and its too mysterious meaning. 

A wagon was coming down the street as 
he tried to cross, and in his haste he tripped 
and fell. He heard the driver’s startled 
shout to the horses, but he did not know when 

the wagon passed over him. 

9 


130 


The crowd that gathered was not alto¬ 
gether drawn by curiosity to see the little 
maimed body of a child among the slush and 
ice of the street. A lady in velvet was pick¬ 
ing her way through the frozen mud, giving 
directions to the driver of the team. 

“ Carry him in there,” she commanded, 
pointing to the door Rags had left wide 
open. “ I saw him run out of there; I was 
following him. Then do some of you men 
run for the hospital wagon, quick—don’t 
stand there staring, you may need it your¬ 
selves some day. Be easy with him, my 
man, there is life there yet/’ 

Within the room to which they bore him, 
an old woman’s dead face, lifted to the 
sooted ceiling with a kind of defiant triumph, 
met them; half hidden by the white ash upon 
the hearth a piece of coldish gray silver 
seemed to be spying upon their movements; 
and at the feet of the dead a bit of white 
cardboard, bearing the marks of a child’s 


131 


soiled fingers, lay turned up to catch the 
winter sun streaming through the uncurtained 
window ; the black letters seemed to catch a 
radiance of their own : 

Isabel Gray. 

The Woman's Relief Society. 

72 JST. Summer. 

When Rags opened his eyes in the hos¬ 
pital they rested upon a lady, richly dressed, 
standing at his bedside. She saw the rec¬ 
ognition in the wide, wondering eyes, and 
stooping, spoke his name : 

“ Rags ? ” 

“ Yessum,” said Rags, “ yessum, I hears 
yer, Miss Lady.” 

“ Boy,” she began, startled, and afraid 
that the struggling life might slip before she 
could deliver her message to the wanderer— 
“ boy, do you know who sent me to you ? ” 

Under its cuts and bruises the dark face 
glowed. 


132 




“ Yessum,” said Bags, “ hit wuz God. 
Dat ar white man say God ud count it up fur 
me, an’ I reckin He done it.” 

She hadn’t the least idea what he was 
talking about, but she understood that some¬ 
one had dropped a seed. Slowly the beauti¬ 
ful head drooped forward, the lips moved 
softly, but with no sound that could reach 
beyond the ear of God:— 

“ Lord, if I might rescue one, but one, of 
Thy poor wandering race! ” 


OLE LOGAN’S COURTSHIP. 


Ole Loge lie’s been a-courtin’. 

Naw! 

Is, now. He tol’ big Si, his uncle, an’ 
big Si lie tol’ little John, his nevvy, an’little 
John he tol’ me. Little John wuz cornin’ 
down the road f’m his place, j’inin’ mine on 
yon side, an’ I met him—jest like I met you 
bit ago, cornin’ up f’m your , j’inin’ mine on 
f other side—an’ him an’ me we sot our- 
se’ves on the rail fence here jest like me an’ 
you’re doin’ of now; an’ little John he wuz 
pow’ful tickled about somethin’. I didn’t 
know at first that thar loose-j’inted, hide¬ 
bound, bean-pole figger of Loge Beaseley 
wuz passin’ down t’ the crossroads yander. 
Little John he begin to whittle a cedar 



134 


<$Ie Courtship. 

splinter, like I’m a-doin’, an’ whilst he wuz 
whittlin’ uv the cedar he tol’ me about ole 
Loge’s goin’ a-courtin’. 

An’ little John he said the firs’ thing 
Loge had to git his own consent to wuz the 
makin’ of his mind up. When that wuz 
done the worst wuz over—so Logan allowed. 
But shucks! it wuz no more en half, if Logan 
hadn’ been sech a blamed fool not to know 
it. But you see, bein’ ez it had took Loge 
nigh about forty year to make up his mind 
to go court’n’ it seemed sort o’ big when he 
got it made up, naturly. 

An’ his ma, ez thinks to this good minute 
Loge’s wearin’ knee pants an’ caliker jackets 
—when he tol’ his ma ’bout his aimin’ to git 
married, the ole lady jest bust out a-cryin’ 
and said she wuz afeard he wuz too young 
to know how to choose, an’ hadn’t he better 
put it off a spell till she could look about fur 
him? 

But Loge allowed he had about made up 


(!)le gtognn’g 135 

his mind it wuz to be one o’ the Sid Fletcher 
gals, though he ain’t no ways made up his 
mind as to which un. Then little John said 
as how his ma took on mightily, and said the 
Sid Fletcher gals wouldn’t do no ways in 
the worl’ ’count o’ their pa bein’ an unbe¬ 
liever. She wuz afeard it might be in the 
blood. 

But Loge he belt out fur the Sid Fletcher 
gals, so little John say, and went upstairs 
to black his boots. They wuz his Sunday 
boots, an’ they ain’t been wore much since 
ole Miss Hooper died, in the Cripple Creek 
neighborhood, two years back. An’ his ma, 
sett’n’ downstairs an’ hearin’ the blackin’ 
box whackin’ back into its place on the floor 
ever’ time Loge took the bresh out’n it, she 
smiled like an’ begin to wonder ef’t be Miss 
Mary, though she ’lowed it might be Mandy; 
it couldn’t in reason be that thar frisky little 
Jinnie. 

Then she hoped to goodness Loge’s wife 


136 


ud be a knitter. Loge ud need some un to 
knit his socks when she wuz gone; an’ some 
un to darn ’em, too, for she say there wa’n’t 
another man in middle Tennessee as hard 
on his socks, solittle John said Loge’s ma 
said, as Loge Beaseley. An’ as fur clean 
socks, Mis’ Beaseley allowed there hadn’t 
been a Sunday mornin’ since Loge took 
to sleepin’ upstairs, stid o’ in the trundle 
bed in her room, that she ain’t been 
obleeged to fetch his socks up to his 
door and wait there to git his s’iled 
ones; Loge bein’ that furgitful he ud put 
on one clean un an’ one s’iled un, or one 
white an’ one red, maybe, or else jest 
put on both the same ole s’iled uns ag’in 
an’ sen’ the clean uns back to the wash-tub. 

Loge’s bashful, you know, mighty skeery 
o’ women. Ain’t never looked at a gal on 
Cripple Creek, barrin’ the Sid Fletcher gals. 
He had opened uv the big gate onc’t fur 
Mandy when she rid a buckin’ horse to 


137 


<!!Uc CGtourtsfoty. 

meet’ll’, an’ the blamed critter jest wouldn’t 
side up to the gate so’s she c’u’d reach the 
latch. 

An’ onc’t when there wuz a camp-meet’n’ 
over in the Fox Camp neighborhood, what 
they useter have ever’ onc’t a year, Loge he 
wuz there. An’ he passed a hymn hook to 
that pretty little Jinnie o’ the Sid Fletcher 
gang. The pars’n he axed Loge to pass the 
books roun’, and Loge done it. Little John 
say he handed her in an’ about sevin books, 
bein’ that flustrated he didn’t know there’s 
anybody else at the meet’n’, after Jinnie 
smiled, an’ said, “ Thank you, sir, I’ve got 
a book,” ever’ time Loge offered her another. 

All the folks wuz smilin’ too, but he didn’t 
know it; he didn’t know he had set his big 
foot down on Jinnie’s new cloth gaiter, or 
that he had clear furgot to turn back the 
hem o’ his pantaloons that he had turned up 
in crossin’ the creek on the rocks, havin’ 
walked over to camp ’count o’ his ma havin’ 


138 


3Ctf0jm , 0 ©ourWip. 

rid the sorrel mare over on Sadday, her havin’ 
to fetch a lot o’ victuals an’ secli fur Sunday. 
An’ he didn’t know ez he’d wore one red 
sock an’ one white un ; his ma not bein’ 
there to see ez he got fellows. An’ little 
John say there wuz the fool a-poppin’ up an’ 
a-dodgin’ up an’ down the meet’ll’ house 
with three inches o’ red a-shinin’ up on un 
leg, betwixt shoe an’ pantaloons, an’ three 
inches o’ white on t’other—just like a jockey 
at a race track or a fool clown in a circus 
fur all the worl’. 

An’ little John say to cap it all, an’ clap 
the climax, there wuz a long white string a- 
dodgin’ Loge’s lef’ heel all roun’ the meet’n’ 
house, makin’ ole Loge look like one o’ 
these here wooden limber jack fellers that 
run up a stick an’ double theirse’ves inter a 
knot ef you pull a string. That’s what little 
John say. An’ ever’body wuz a-laffin’, 
an’ Jinnie she wuz snickerin’ bellin’ her 
hymn-book, fur ever’ time she smiled Loge 


139 


(Ole 3p0g»tt , 0 (Stouvtjsfaijr. 

he’d come a-jouncin’ back to poke another 
book at her. 

But lor, ole Loge allowed all them smiles 
wuz jest ’count o’ him; an’ little John say 
that’s how come he first got that fool notion 
about goin’ a-courtin.’ Little John say ole 
bach’lors are secli blamed fools, an’ so stuck 
on theirse’ves, they thinks if a woman looks 
at ’em they’re breakin’ their necks to marry 
of ’em. 

So ole Loge he got it into his head to git 
married. Though he wa’n’t settled in his 
min’ as to which o’ the gals he’d take. He 
wuz kind o’ stuck on the whole gang, little 
John say. An’ Loge say he owed it ter all 
o’ ’em to marry ’em, he wuz ’feard. Now, 
there wuz Miss Mary, the ol’est one; little 
John say Loge foun’ a guinea nes’ onc’t in 
the corner o’ the fur eend fence what divides 
their two plantations. ’Twuz some time in 
May; there wuz twenty odd eggs in the nes’ 
when Loge found it. Little John say Loge 


140 


(&U gtoptt'i* taftehip. 

knowed it wuz a guinea nes’ ’count o’ the 
old guinea lien bein’ a-sett’n’ on it whenst he 
foun’ it. An’ the fool skeered her off ; she 
didn’t want to git off much, but Loge made 
her. He punched her with a fence rail till 
he broke three eggs; but he got her druv 
off at last. 

An’ then he picked up the eggs in his hat 
an’ fetched ’em up to the house, allowin’ 
they must be Miss Mary’s, bein’ as they wuz 
on her side the fence ; and bein’, too, as 
Miss Mary wuz the housekeeper an’ ’tended 
to the chickens an’ things, her ma bein’ 
knocked up with rheumatism fur the last 
endurin’ five years. So Loge he fetched the 
eggs up in his hat, mighty keerful not to 
break a single one. He tromped across the 
clover bottom, two corn fiel’s, a cotton-patch, 
an’ a strip 0’ woods lot, bareheaded, in the 
blazin’ sun; little John say his bald head 
look like a b’iled beet with the skin took 
off when he got to the kitchen door an’ 


(DU itogatt'js (tarfitofir. 


141 


give the eggs to ole Aunt Cindy, the cook, 
askin' her to give 'em to Miss Mary fur 
him. 

Ole Aunt Cindy she looked sorter skeered 
like, a minute, an' then she gin a grunt, but 
she ain’t sayin’ nothin' till Loge uz gone 
home. Then she walked out the back door 
an' flung them guinea eggs over in the hog 
lot. Then she went in the house an’ tol’ 
Miss Mary ole Logan Beaseley done broke 
up the guinea nest they wuz lookin' fur to 
hatch out nex’ day. She say there wuz 
twenty-one little dead guineas layin' over in 
the hog lot, all just ready to hop out o' their 
shells. 

Miss Mary didn’t say much—she’s alius 
mighty quiet an’ sober an’ dignified; but 
Mandy, the second gal, she flared up an’ 
allowed a fool-killer would he a mighty wel¬ 
come vis’tor to that neighborhood, that he 
would. An’ Jinnie, the young, pretty one, 
she jest laffed out, fit to kill, an’ asked Aunt 


142 


<DIc fgfrptk’# (StowrWjr* 

Cindy if she couldn’t have scrambled guineas 
fur breakfast. 

Ole Logan wuz bewitched, I reckin. Little 
John says he wuz conjured. He didn’t 
know which o’ the gals he ud take, but he 
tol’ his ma he felt obligated to marry one o’ 
the Sid’s ’count o’ havin’ paid ’em con- 
sider’ble notice—meanin’ the big gate, the 
hymn-book, art the guinea eggs—an’ folks 
ud be ap’ to talk if he didn’t. Besides, the 
gals would expect it, an’ feel sorter slighted 
if he didn’t marry into the fam’ly. 

Him an’ Sid wuz good frien’s. He had 
borrowed Sid’s chilled plow onc’t when his 
own wuz at the blacksmith’s an’ the river 
riz so’s he couldn’t go fur it. An’ Sid had 
borrowed Loge’s steelyards onc’t to weigh 
some cotton, before sendin’ of it off to the 
gin. He didn’t visit anywheres else much, 
outside o’ funer’ls an’ meet’n’s at the church. 

So he set off on the sorrel; that little runt 
of a mare with the sway back, an’ a tail that 


(&U (Stoutteftip. 143 

the calf chawed off one night when Loge 
put the calf up in the stable along o’ the 
mare, so’s to keep it from chawin’ up the 
saddle blanket hangin’ in the back po’ch. 
Little John say his uncle met Loge cornin’ 
up the lane on the sorrel. He say he knows 
ole Noah took that little swayback in the ark 
with him, ’count o’ it bein’ little like, an’ its 
back makin’ a good seat fur his grandchillen 
to ride on. 

An’ he say that Cripple Creek wuz right 
smart up, an’ ole Loge had to hoi’ up his 
long legs to keep ’em out the water, ’count 
o’ havin’ on his best Sunday pantaloons; 
spankin’ new ones to go courtin’ in. So 
Loge he hitched his feet up behin’ him, 
’g’inst the swayback’s flanks, an’ plumb 
furgot to take ’em down any more, but rid 
right up to the gate with his legs bunked 
behin’ him, like a grasshopper ready fur to 
jump. 

He seen the gals at the winder, all smilin’ 


144 




a welcome, as Loge thought, an’ again he 
begin to wonder, which one he orter take. 
He tied the sorrel to a hick’ry limb an’ went 
on up todes the house. 

The house has got a new wing made o’ 
log ; it ain’t quite finished yit, an’ there’s two 
front doors. Loge couldn’t fur the life uv 
him tell which door he orter take, an’ he 
begin to git orful skeered that minute. He 
went on, though, bekase he see he couldn’t 
make it back to the sorrel without passin’ the 
winder again; an’ he allowed to his uncle, 
big Si, as how he’d a ruther died as to 
a parsed that there winder again. So he 
plunged right on, inter the wrong door, an’ 
run into the gals’ room where Miss Mary 
wuz sort’ll’ out clean clothes, ’count o’ it 
bein’ Sadday evenin’. 

When she looked up from the pile o’ 
petticoats she wuz count’ll’ an’ see that figger 
o’ Loge’s in the door, she jest riz right up, 
an’ says she, kind o’ fierce like, “ Father’s 


145 


gtoptt'js; (fltowrtehip. 

down in the cornfier ; you can go down there, 
or I’ll ring the bell fur him.” 

Loge he begin to twist his coat-tails; they 
wuz already half way up to his armpits, so 
little John say, an’ little John say he reckin 
he clear furgot about havin’ come a-court’n’, 
fur says he, “No’m; no, Miss Mary, you 
needn’t ring the ole man up—I jest called 
by over here to—to—er ”—he saw a cedar 
pail on the shelf in the open passage-way 
betwixt the back end part o’ the house, the 
dinin’ room an’ kitchen, an’ the front part 
where the fam’ly lives, an’ that cedar pail 
wuz the savin’ uv him—“ I jest come over 
here,” says he, u to git a goad o’ water.” 

An’ Miss Mary she stepped to the passage 
with him, an’ p’inted first to the pail on the 
shelf an’ then to the wellsweep down in the 
yard, an’ says she, “ There’s the pail; it’s full 
an’ fresh, but if it ain’t enough to satisfy 
your thirst, yonder’s the well.” 

Loge allowed to his uncle as he decided 
10 


146 


(Die gtopn’tf (KourtjJup. 


right there he wouldn’t choose Miss Mary; 
he begin to see she didn’t suit him. He say 
he wuz afeard she couldn’t darn socks . 

It was jest when Loge lifted the goad to 
his mouth that Jinnie she called out to 
Miss Mary from her ma’s room, an’ sez 
she :— 

“ Sister Mary, ma says you’re to fetch Mr. 
Beaseley right in here to the fire”—the ole 
’oman keeps a fire goin’ winter an’ summer, 
’count o’ the rheumatiz—“ she says she knows 
he’s mortal tired after his thirsty ride.” 

Eid four miles fur a goad o’ water ; cross 
Cripple Creek three times, an’ Pant’er twicet, 
to say nothin’ o’ Forkid Branch that winds 
in an’ out an’ up an’ across them two 
plantations like a moonstruck chicken snake 
tryin’ to foller out the corporation line o’ 
them Tennessee towns what hey been down 
with the boom fever, an’ ain’t made out to 
set itse’f straight yit! That sharp little 
Jinnie seen through that excuse in half a 


01c lltopn'jsi Ccwkihip. 147 

minute, an’ that’s why she called out to Loge 
to come in. 

But little John say the fool ain’t no more’n 
heard her voice than the goad went whack 
to the floor like a sky rocket on the home run. 

“ You’re to come right in, Mr. Beaseley,” 
says Jinnie, “ an’ you’re to put your horse 
in the barn first, if you please, because pa’s 
got a new heifer cow that’s had to be turned 
in the yard to keep her out o’ the cornfiel’. 
An’ she’s that give to chewin’ things Aunt 
Cindy has to dry the clean clothes in the 
kitchen to keep her from eat’n’ us all clean 
out of a change. She’s e’t up two tablecloths 
an’ a sheet, three petticoats an’ a brand new 
pair o’ my sister Mary’s stockin’s. She’ll 
eat your saddle flaps teetotally off if you leave 
your mare out there.” 

Ole Loge he looked foolish ; the yearlin’ 
at home had gnawed them saddle skirts into 
sassage meat long ago. He put his horse 
up, though, in the barn—the big barn what 


148 


<!Mc Uflptt’jSi tartehij*. 


opens on to the lane. An’ little John say 
the blamed fool furgot ter shut the barn 
door, an’ the mare walked out same time Loge 
did, an’ walked right on back home. 

Well, little John say it begin to rain todes 
dark, an’ the ole man he tol’ Loge he mus’ 
stay all night; an’ Loge he done it. You 
see, they built up a right peart fire, ’count 
o’ rheumatiz an’ rain, an’ they give Loge a 
seat in the cornder. An’ when black-eyed 
Mandy axed him if he didn’t think a sprink¬ 
lin’ now’n’ then wuz healthy, he bein’ Metho¬ 
dist, ole Loge got that skeered he made a 
lunge at the big iron shovil an’ begin to 
twist it roun’ an’ roun’, an’ to say he didn’t 
know but what ’twas ! Then he begin to 
jab his fingers through the iron ring at the 
end o’ the shovil handle; an’ he kep’ that 
up till he got to his thumb; an’ hit went 
through all right, but it stuck. Loge he 
got plumb skeered then ; twis’ an’ screw as 
he would, the darn thing wouldn’t budge. 


(!)U* Ipipn^ 149 

So when ole man Sid axed him to stay all 
night he said he would, bekase you see he 
couldn’t go home nohow if he’d a mind to 
’less he carried the shovil, too. 

An’ then the supper bell rung, an’ the ole 
man’ bid ’em all out to supper ; but Loge he 
said he wouldn’t choose any—he wuzn’t a 
mighty hearty feeder at night, count o’ 
dreams. An’ little John say the folks went 
out an’ left him, an’ bein’ left to hisse’f he 
set about gittin’ loose. He tried art he 
tried ; an’ at last he made up his min’ to 
sneak out the front door and cut out fur 
home, shovil an’ all. Then he remembered 
he’d orter licked his thumb, an’ he tried that, 
but it wouldn’t go. Just as he got up to 
tiptoe out, the shovil hangin’ on like a part¬ 
ner at a picnic, an’ ’bout the time he’d 
walked half across the room, the blamed 
thing slipped off’n that licked thumb o’ 
Loge’s, an’ struck the hard floor like a clap 
o’ young thunder. 


150 


(Oh gtogan'isi ©ouvbliitr. 


Loge lie jumped like a trounced frog, an’ 
give one skeered little beller, like a Durham 
bull with the hiccups . 

Before the family went in to supper Loge 
he’d made up his mind, in an’ about, as it 
mus’ be Mandy. It appeared’s if that ’ud 
be more gratifyin’ to his ma, as Mandy 
seemed turned religious, talkin’ o’ Methodists 
an’ sech. But when that shovil drapped an’ 
Loge bellered out like he done, an’ he heard 
Miss Mandy come out into the passage an’ 
call out to Jube, the hired man, that big 
Buck, ole Sid’s yaller steer, wuz in her ma’s 
room breakin’ up things, Loge say he set it 
right down to hisse’f as she wouldn’t do fur 
a farmer’s wife—not knowin’, like she done, 
that steers wouldn’t come up into a house 
an’ c?esturb things, not fur nothin’. He say 
farmers’ wives mus’ learn better’ll that. 

So little John say that Loge made choice 
o’ Jinnie. An’ Jinnie she seemed mighty 
willin’, bein’ young an’ gayly. An’ she set 


151 


her cheer up close to Loge’s an’ talked 
mighty polite to him after supper. She tol’ 
him he ought to git married, an’ have a wife 
to look after his socks an’ things. An’ she 
axed mighty kind about his ma, an’ got it 
all out o’ Loge ’bout his ma want’ll’ him to 
wait till he wuz older, an’ all that. 

An’ them two talked on till Miss Mary 
got up an’ went off to bed; an’ Mandy went 
out in the kitchen an’ set with ole Aunt 
Cindy ; an’ ole Sid an’ his wife went sound 
asleep in the chimbly cornders, an’ didn’t 
wake up till the clock wuz strikin’ twelve. 
Then the ole man lit a light an’ showed 
Loge off into the new room, hit being the 
only spare room in the house, an’ hit not 
finished. As I wuz sayin’ the daubing 
wuzn’t all in, nor all the chinkin’; but bein 
May, an’ Loge healthy, the ole man rumi¬ 
nated as that didn’t matter much. 

But he tol’ Loge as he’d better blow out 
his candle before he undressed if he wuz 


152 


#1* tevtjsftip. 

afeard o’ bein’ seen through the cracks. 
An’ Loge done it, an’ when he had done it 
he couldn’t find a cheer to hang his Sunday 
pantaloons on. He felt all over the room, 
mighty keerful, but he couldn’t find no 
cheer. He wa’n’t goin’ to hang them new 
breeches on the bare floor, that was mighty 
certain. An’ he wuz afeard to hang ’em on 
the foot o’ the bed, count o’ it bein’ low, an’ 
they wuz likely to be rumpled, too, Loge 
bein’ consider’ble of a kicker. So he jest 
smoothed the pantaloons out keerful an’ 
laid ’em, longways, between two o’ the logs 
o’ the house, where the chinkin’ ort to ’a’ 
been. Little John say Loge tol’ big Si he 
felt like it wuz a young baby he wuz layin’ 
by to sleep, he wuz that partic’lar not to 
wrinkle up his breeches. An’ ten minutes 
after he put ’em there he wuz sound asleep 
betwixt two o’ Miss Mary’s best sheets. 

It wuz sun-up when old Loge woke up, 
an’ the ole man wuz callin’ him to breakfast. 


153 


< Me gtoptt ’0 ©omlpty* 

Loge called back he’d be there in a minute, 
an’ lie begin to hustle about to dress hisse’f. 
He reached fur his pantaloons—then he 
stopped still, like the blame blockhead that 
he is. They wuz gone ! clean gone ! He 
searched on the floor, an’ he flung off the bed 
clothes to look there ; he got down on his 
hands an’ knees to look under the bed. He 
even tore open Miss Mary’s bureau drawer 
to see if he didn’t git up in his sleep an’ 
cram ’em in there. Then he felt down his 
long legs to see if he mightn’t forgot an’ 
kep’ ’em on. Naw, sir ; nothin’ there but 
skin an’ bone—bare carcass. He scratched 
his head an’ tried to think; they wuz slio’ly 
round somewheres ; he had jist furgot, in 
one o’ his absent-minded fits, an’ laid ’em 
somewheres. He looked bellin’ the door, an’ 
on top the wardrobe, an’ under the bed 
again ; he pulled all the gal’s things out o’ 
the bureau drawers an’ shook ’em up piece 
by piece \ he looked in the slop bucket, an’ 


154 


(Die tartehip. 


bellin’ the washstan’; he raked out the 
cedar bresh the gals had decorated the fire¬ 
place with an’ looked there ; he stuck his 
head up the chimbly an’ looked there ; then 
he tuk it out again, kivered with soot an’ 
ashes, an’ went back to bed, an’ give out 
that he wuz mighty sick, an’ would some un 
please go fur his ma. 

An’ little John say his ma come over ter- 
rectly, but she went home again in a min¬ 
ute ; jouncin’ up an’ down on the swayback 
sorrel like a house afire. An’ little while 
later she rid over agin with a bundle tied 
to the side-saddle; an’ after while ole 
Loge he watched fur a chance when there 
wa’n’t nobody lookin’ to sneak off through 
the woods an’ go home. 

He’d made up his mind not to marry yit; 
Jinnie she wuz young, an’ could wait a bit. 

An’ little John say, that later in the day 
Jinnie she was nosin’ about in the yard to 
see if her rose-bushes wuz putt’n’ out 


<!)U gtopn'g ®0uvt^hi}r. 


155 


proper, an’ she see the new heifer cow a 
munchin’ mighty contented like, on a little 
pile o’ truck that looked like carpet rags. 
An’ she got a fish in’ pole an’ fished it up, 
an’ looked at it, laffin’ fit to kill all the 
time. Then she called to the gals to come 
there quick ; an’ when they come says she,— 

“ Here’s what ailed him—here’s why he 
didn’t want no breakfast, an’ here’s why his 
ma made them two trips this mornin’.” 

Then Miss Mandy she say she’d like to 
know what that roll o’ strings got to do 
with the clothes bein’ all flung out o’ the 
drawer. An’ little Jinnie say she reckin ole 
Loofe wuz lookin’ to see if he could find 
anything ’mongst Miss Mary’s clothes as 
would fit him, so’s he could come to break¬ 
fast. 

u Bekase,” says she, “ these are hound to 
be his breeches. I know it’s breeches, by 
the buckles; the cow ain’t chawed them past 
identifyin’.” 


156 


(Ole g^pn’# (tottekip. 

Then little Jinnie she laffed mightily, an’ 
tol’ the others she’d a good min’ to send the 
things home with her compliments. 

An’ the next week I got a bid to the wed- 
din’ of Jinnie an’ little John. 

Yes, sir, ole Loge he went a-courtin’; he 
tol’ big Si, his uncle, an’ big Si he tol’ little 
John, his nevvy, an’ little John he tol’ me. 

And the man on the rail fence chuckled, 
and went on carefully whittling the last of 
his cedar splinter. 


THE HEART OF THE WOODS. 


Twilight fell softly over Beersheba, 
beautiful Beerslieba. It is going into his¬ 
tory now with its sad old fancies and its 
quaint old legends, its record of happiness 
and of heartbreak,—those two opposing, yet 
closely interwoven, inevitables which always 
belong to a summer resort. 

But Beerslieba is different from the rest, 
in that the railroads have never found it; 
and it goes into history a monument to the 
old days when the wealthy among the 
southern folk flocked to the mountains, and 
to Beerslieba—queen of the hill country of 
Tennessee. 

The western sky, where it seems to slope 

down toward Dan, had turned to gaudy 

157 



158 


t gcHft of the ^ 00 ^, 

orange; the east was hazy and dimly purple, 
streaked with long lines of shadow, resem¬ 
bling, in truth, some lives we remember to 
have noticed, lives that for all their royal 
purple were still blotched with the heavier 
shadows of pain that is never spoken. 

It was inexpressibly lonely; a cowbell 
tinkled in the distance, and now and 
then a fox barked in a covert of Dark Hol¬ 
low, that almost impenetrable jungle that 
lies along the “ Back Bone,” a narrow, 
zigzag ridge stretching from Dan to Beer- 
sheba. 

Dan, modest little Dan, seven furlongs 
distant from queenly Beersheba, with its 
one artistic little house, refusing in spite of 
time and weather, and that more deadly foe, 
renters , to be other than pretty and pictur¬ 
esque, as it nestles like a little gray dove in 
its nest of cedar and wild pine. A very 
dreamful place is Dan, dreamful and safe. 

Safe; so thought the man leaning upon 


fjjtoi 0f the Woflrtg. 159 

the low fence that inclosed the old ante-bel¬ 
lum graveyard that was a part of Beersheba 
also. For in the olden days people came by 
families and family connections, bringing 
their servants and carriages. And those 
who died at Beersheba were left sleeping in 
the little graveyard—a cpiiet spot, shut in 
by old cedars and rustling laurel. A very 
solemn little resting-place, with the cedars 
moaning, and the winds soughing, as if in con¬ 
tinual lament for the dead left to their care. 
Among the quiet sleepers was one concern¬ 
ing whom the man leaning upon the fence 
never tired of thinking, while he made, by 
instinct, it seemed to him, a daily pilgrimage 
to her grave. It was marked by a long, 
narrow shaft, exceedingly small at the top. 
Midway the shaft a heart, chased out of the 
yellow, moss-stained marble, a heart pierced 
by a bullet. He had brushed the moss aside 
long ago to read the quaint yet fascinating 
inscription:— 


160 


geart of t \xt mm. 

“ Millicent—April, 1862. 

< Oh, Shiloh! Shiloh! ’ ” 

He had heard the story of the sleeper 
underneath often, often. It is one of the 
legends, now, of Beersheba. Yet he thought 
of it with peculiar interest, that twilight 
time, as he stood leaning upon the low fence 
while the sun set over Dan. His face, with 
the after-glow of sunset full upon it, was 
not a face in keeping with the quiet scene 
about him. It was not a youthful face, 
although handsome. Yet the lines upon it 
were not the lines made by time : a stronger 
enemy than time had left his mark there. 
Dissipation was written in the ruddy com¬ 
plexion, the bloated flesh, and the bloodshot 
eye. The continual movement of the hand 
feeling along the whitewashed plank, or 
fingering, unconsciously, the trigger of the 
loaded rifle, testified, in a dumb way, to the 
derangement of the nervous system which 
had been surrendered to that most debasing 


161 


gfnrt of the WaaiIs. 

of all passions, drink. He had sought the 
invigorating mountains, the safety of isola¬ 
tion, to do for him that which an abused 
and deadened will refused to do. It is a 
terrible thing to stand alone with the wreck 
of one’s self. It is worse to set the Might - 
Have-Been side by side with the Is, and 
know that it is everlastingly too late to alter 
the colorings of either picture. 

His was an hereditary passion, an in¬ 
iquity of the father visited upon the son. 
Against such there is no law, and for such 
no remedy. 

He thought bitterly of these things as he 
stood leaning upon the graveyard fence. 
His life was a graveyard, a tangle of weeds, 
a plat of purposes overgrown with rank de¬ 
spair. He had struggled since he could re¬ 
member. All his life had been one terrible 
struggle. And now, he knew that it was 
useless, he understood that the evil was hered¬ 
itary, and to conquer it, or rather to free 


162 mt 'gmxt of the Wm\$. 

himself from it, there was but one alternative. 
He glanced down at the rifle resting against 
his knee. He did not intend to endure the 
torture any very great while longer. He 
possessed the instincts of a gentleman,— 
the cravings of a beast. The former had 
won him something of friends and sympathy, 
—and love. The latter had cost him all 
the other had won. For coming across the 
little graveyard in a straight line with the 
shadows of the old cedars, her arms full of 
the greens and tender wild blossoms of the 
mountain, was the one woman he had loved. 
She had done her best to “ reform ” him. 
The world called it a “ reform.” If reform 
meant a new birth, that was the proper name 
for it, he thought, as he watched her coming 
down the shadow-line, and tried to think of 
her as another man’s wife ; this woman he 
loved, and who had loved him. 

He saw her stop beside a little mound, 
kneel down, and, carefully dividing her 


163 


m ®mt af the Wm\$. 

flowers, place the half of them upon a child’s 
grave. Her face was wet with tears when 
she arose, and crossing over to the tall, 
yellow shaft, placed the remainder of the 
offering at its base. She stood a moment, 
as if studying the odd inscription. And 
when she turned away he saw that the tears 
were gone, and a hopeless patience gave the 
sweet face a tender beauty. 

“‘Oh, Shiloh! Shiloh!’” 

He heard her repeat the melancholy words 
as she moved away from the old shaft, and 
opening the gate he waited until she should 
pass out. 

“ Donald ! ” 

“ I couldn’t help it, Alice. You are going 
away to-morrow ; it is the last offence. You 
will forgive it because it is the last.” 

“You ought not to follow me in this way 
it isn’t honorable. See ! I have been to put 
some flowers on my little baby’s grave.” 
She glanced back, as she stood, her hand 


164 


©Jte g^art of tH 


upon the gate, at the little flower-bedecked 
grave, where, two months before, she had 
buried her only child. 

“ You shared your treasures with the 
other,” he said, indicating the tall shaft. 

u I always do,” said she. u There is 
something about that grave that touches 
me with singular pity. I feel as if it 
were myself who is buried there. I 
think the girl must have died of a broken 
heart.” 

“ Have you never heard the story ? ” said 
Donald. “ I suppose it might be called a 
broken heart, although the doctors gave it 
the more agreeable title of ‘heart disease .’ 
It is very well for the world that doctors do 
not call things by their right name always. 
Now, if I should be found dead to-morrow 
morning in my little room at Dan, the doctors 
would pronounce me a victim of ‘ apoplexy/ 
or ‘ heart failure/ That would be very 
generous of the doctors so far as I am con- 


Shart 0f the TOwite. 165 

cerned. But would it not be more generous 
to struggling humanity to say the truth ? 
c This man died of delirium tremens ,— 
killed himself with whiskey. Now you other 
sots take warning/ ” 

“ Donald Rives! ” the sad eyes, full of 
unspoken pity, not unmixed with regret, 
sought his. 

“ Truth,” said Donald. “ And truth, Alice, 
is always best. The world, the sick moral 
world, cannot be healed with falsehood. But 
the woman sleeping there—she has a pretty 
story. Will you wait while I tell it—you 
are going away to-morrow.” 

She glanced down the road, dim with the 
twilight. 

“The others are gone on to Dan, to see 
the moon rise,” she said hesitatingly. 

“ We will follow them there in a moment,” 
said Donald. “ I have a fancy for telling 
you that story.” 

He laughed, a nervous, mirthless kind of 


166 rnxt Wmt of the 

laugh, and slipped his rifle to his other 
hand. 

“ She had a lover in the army, you 
understand. She was waiting here with 
hundreds of others until ‘ the cruel war 
should cease.’ One day when there had 
been a great battle, a messenger came to 
Beersheba, bringing news for her. He 
brought a letter, and she came across the 
little court there at Beersheba, and received 
it from the messenger’s own hand. She 
tore it open and read the one line written 
there. Then the white page fluttered to the 
ground. She placed her hands upon her 
heart as if the bullet had pierced her. ‘ Oh, 
Shiloh ! Shiloh ! ’ That was all she said or 
did. The ball from old Shiloh did its work. 
The next day they buried her up there under 
the cedars. The letter had but one line : 
‘ Shot at Shiloh, fatally; ’ and signed by the 
captain of the company who had promised to 
send news of the battle. Just a line; but 


©he genet of the Wood#. 


167 


enough to break a heart. Hearts break 
easily, sweetheart.” 

She looked at him with her earnest eyes 
full of tears. 

“ Do you think hers broke ? ” she asked. 
“ I do not. She merely went to him.” 

“ As I should go to you if you were 
to die, because I cannot live without 
you.” 

“ Hush ! I am nothing to you now. Only 
a friend who loves you, and would help you 
if she could, but she is powerless.” 

“ 0 Alice, do not say that. Do not give 
me over in that hopeless way to ruin. Do 
not abandon me now.” 

u Donald,” the voice was very low, and 
sweet, and— strong. “ There was a time I 
thought to help you. I did my best and— 
failed. It is too late now. I am married. 
You, who could not put aside your passion 
for the girl whose heart was yours, and 
whom you loved sincerely, could not, as- 


168 


&he §imt of the Wornl#. 

suredly, put it by for the woman whose love, 
and life, and duty are pledged to another. 
Yet, you know I feel for you. You know 
what it is to be tempted, so, alas! do I. 
Wait! stand back. There is this difference. 
You know what it is to yield ; but I have 
that little mound back there ”—she nodded 
toward the little flower-decked grave—“ the 
dead help me, the sleeper underneath is my 
strength. If I were dead now, I would 
come to you, and help you. Do that which, 
living, I failed in doing. Come, now; let 
us go on and see the moon rise over Dan. 
The others have gone long ago.” 

They passed out, and the little gate swung 
to its place. The dead at Beersheba were 
left alone again. Left to their tranquil 
slumbers. Tranquil? Aye, it is only the 
living who are eager and unhappy. 

Down the shadowy road they passed, those 
two whose lives had met, and mingled, and 
parted again. Those two so necessary to 


169 


®\u Imt of ilu Wml*. 

each other, and who, despite the necessity, 
must touch hands and part. 

’Tis said God makes for every human 
soul a counterpart, a soul-helper. If this be 
so, then is it true that every soul must find 
its counterpart, since God does not work by 
half, and knows no bungling in His plan. 
That other self is somewhere ,—on this 
earth, or in some other sphere. The souls 
are separated, perhaps by death, perhaps 
by human agency. What of that ? Soul 
will seek soul; will find its counterpart and 
perform its work, its own half share, though 
death and vast eternity should roll between. 

They passed on, those two, wishing for 
and needing each the other. Wishing until 
God heard, and made the wish a prayer, 
and answered it, in His own time and 
manner. 

At the crossing of the roads where one 
breaks off to Dan, the mountain preacher’s 
little cabin stood before them. Nothing, 


170 


|kavt of the Wumte. 


and yet it had a bearing on their lives. On 
his, at all events. 

Before the door, leaning upon the little 
low gate, an old man with white hair and 
beard was watching the gambols of two 
children playing with a large dog. The 
cabin, old and weatherworn, the man, the 
tumble-down appearance of things generally, 
formed a strange contrast with the mag¬ 
nificence of nature visible all around. To 
Donald, with his southern ideas of ease and 
elegance, there was something repulsive 
in the scene. But the woman was more 
charitable. 

“ Good evening, parson,” she called, “ we 
are going over to Dan to watch the moon 
rise.” 

“ Yes, yes,” said the old man. “ An’ 
hadn’t ye better leave the gun, sir ? There’s 
no use luggin’ that to Dan. An’ ye’ll find 
it here ’ginst you come back.” 

“ Why, we’re going back another route,” 


171 


&hc Igmt of the Wxnfite. 

they told him; not dreaming what that 
route would be. 

“ You have a goodly country, parson/’ 
said Donald, “ and so near heaven one 
ought to find peace here.” 

“ It be not plentiful,” said the old man. 
a An’ man be born to trouble as the sparks 
go up’ard. But all be bretherin, by the 
grace o’ God, an’ bound alike for Canaan.” 

They passed on, bearing the old man’s 
meaning in their hearts. All bound upon 
one common road for Canaan. 

Oh, Israel! Israel! the wandering in the 
wilderness goes on. The Promised Land 
still lies ahead, and wanderers in earth’s 
wilderness still seek it, panting and dying, 
with none to strike a rock in Horeb. 

The Promised Land! what glimpses of 
that glorious country are vouchsafed, mere 
glimpses, from those rugged heights, such 
as were granted him, who, weary with his 
wanderings, sought Pisgah’s top to die. 


172 


She gcavt of the Waotl^. 

Sometimes, when the mists are lifted and 
the sun shines through the rifted clouds, 
what dreams, what visions, what communion 
with those whom the angels met upon the 
mountain J They thought upon it, those 
two, as they passed on to Dan. 

To Dan, through the broad gate artisti¬ 
cally set with palings of green and white. 
Under the sweet old cedars deep down into 
the heart of the woods, with the solemn 
mountains rising, grim and mysterious, in 
the twilight. Down the great bluff where 
the tinkle of falling water tells of the spring 
hidden in the dim wood’s shadowy heart. 
The golden arrows of sunset are put out one 
by one by the shadow-hands of the twilight 
hidden in the haunted hemlocks. One star 
rises above the trees and peeps down to find 
itself quivering in the dusky pool. A little 
bird flits by with an evening hymn flutter¬ 
ing in its throat. 

They stopped at the foot of the bluff and 


173 


©Itc gjtairt of the 

seated themselves upon a fallen tree, the 
rifle resting, the stock upon the ground, the 
muzzle against the tree, between them. 

Between them, the loaded rifle. She her¬ 
self had placed it there. They had scarcely 
spoken, but words are weak; feeling is 
strong—and silent. His heart was break¬ 
ing; could words help that? It was she 
who spoke at last, nestling closer to him a 
moment, then quickly drawing back. Her 
hand had touched the iron muzzle of the 
gun—it was cold, and it reminded her. 
She drew her hands together and folded 
them, palm to palm, between her knees, and 
held them there, lest the sight of his agony 
drag them from duty and from honor. She 
could not bear to look at him, she could only 
speak to him, with her eyes turned away to¬ 
ward the distant mountains. 

“ Donald,” her voice was low and very 
steady, “ there are so many mistakes made, 
dear, and my marriage was one of them. 


174 


Jkart of the Woatte. 

But, the blunder having been committed, I 
must abide by it. And who knows if, after 
all, it be a mistake ? Who can understand, 
and who dares judge ? But right cannot 
grow from wrong. We part. But I shall 
not leave you, Donald. Here in the heart 
of the woods-” 

“ Don’t! ” he lifted his face, white with 
agony. “ Your suffering can but increase 
mine. Go hack, dear, and forget. Our 
paths crossed in vain, in vain. Go back, 
and leave me to my lonely struggles. I 
shall miss you, oh, my beloved,—” the 
words choked him, “ forget, forget—” 

“ Never! ” again she moved toward him, 
again drew back. The iron muzzle had 
touched her shoulder, warningly. She still 
held her hands fast clasped between her 
knees. Suddenly she loosed them ; opened 
them, looked at them ; so frail, so small, 
so delicately womanly as they were. 
He, too, saw them, the dear hands, and 



175 


®he gaft of tlte 

made a motion to clasp them, restrained 
himself, and groaned. She understood, and 
her whole soul responded. The old calm was 
gone; the wife forgotten. It was only the 
woman that spoke as she slipped from her 
place beside him, to the ground at his 
feet; and extended the poor hands toward 
him. 

“ Donald, 0 Donald! ” she sobbed. 
“ Look at my hands. How frail they are, 
and weak, and white, and clean. A ye, they 
are clean, Donald. Take them in your 
own ; hold them fast one moment, for they 
are worthy. But oh, my beloved, if they 
falter or go wrong, those little hands, who 
would pity their polluted owner ? Not you, 
oh, not you. I know the sequel to such 
madness. Help me to keep them clean. 
Help me—oh, help me ! ” 

She lifted them pleadingly, the tears rain¬ 
ing down her cheeks. She, the strong, the 
noble, appealing to him. In that moment 


176 


graft of the WMte. 

she became a saint, a being to be worshipped 
afar off, like God. 

“ Help me ! ” She appealed to him, to 
his manhood which he had supposed dead so 
long the hollow corpse would scarcely hear 
the judgment trump. 

Her body swayed to and fro with the 
terrible struggle. Aye, she knew what it 
was to be tempted. She who would have 
died for that poor drunkard’s peace. But 
that little mound—that little child’s grave 
on the hill — u Help me ! ” She reeled for¬ 
ward and he sprang to clasp her. The rifle 
slipped its place against the log; but it was 
between them still; the iron muzzle pointed 
at her heart. There was a flash, a sharp re¬ 
port, and she fell, just missing the arms ex¬ 
tended to receive her. 

“ 0 my God! ” the cry broke from him, a 
wild shriek, torn from his inmost heart. 
“ 0 my God ! my God! I have killed her. 
Alice ! oh, speak to me ! speak to me before 


®he 1 mt of the Wo o&$. 


177 


my brain goes mad.” He had dropped be¬ 
side her, on his knees, and drawn the poor 
face to his bosom. She opened her eyes 
and nestled there, closer to his heart. 
There was no iron muzzle between them 
now. She smiled, and whispered, softly :— 

“ In the heart of the woods. 0 Love ; 0 
Love! ” 

And seeing that he understood, she laid 
her hand upon his bosom, gasped once, and 
the little hands were safe. They would 
never “ go wrong ” now, never. Even love, 
which tempts the strongest into sin, could 
never harm them now, those little dead 
hands. 

“ In the heart of the woods.” It was 
there they buried her, beside that broken¬ 
hearted one whose life went with the tidings 
from old Shiloh, in the little mountain grave¬ 
yard in the woods ’twixt Dan and Beer- 
sheba. 

As for him, her murderer, they said, 
12 


178 


gleart of the Wflotte. 


u the accident quite drove him mad.” Per¬ 
haps it did ; he thought so, often ; only that 
he never called it by the name of accident. 

“ It was God’s plan for helping me,” he 
told himself during those slow hours of tor¬ 
ture that followed. There were days and 
weeks when the very mention of the place 
would tear his soul. Then the old craving 
returned. Drink; he could forget, drown 
it all if only he could return to the old 
way of forgetting. But something held 
him back. What was it ? God ? No, no. 
God did not care for such as he, he told 
himself. He was alone ; alone forever now. 
One night there was a storm, the cedars 
were lashed and broken, and the windows 
rattled with the fury of the wind. The rain 
beat against the roof in torrents. The 
night was wild, as he was. Oh ! he, too, 
could tear, and howl, and shriek. Tear up 
the very earth, he thought, if only he let 
his demon loose. 


©he Shart of the TOjuite. 179 

He arose and threw on his clothes. He 
wanted whiskey; he was tired of the 
struggle, the madness, the despair. A mile 
beyond there was a still, an illicit concern 
worked only at night. He meant to find it. 
His brain was giving way, indeed. Had 
already given way, he thought, as he listened to 
the wind calling him, the storm luring him on 
to destruction. The very lightning beckoned 
him to “come and be healed.’’ Healed? 
Aye, he knew what it was that healed the 
agonies of mind that physics could not 
reach. He knew, he knew. He had been 
a fool to think he would forego this healing. 
He laughed as he tore open the door and 
stepped out into the night. The cool rain 
struck upon his burning brow as he plunged 
forward into the arms of the darkness. He 
had gone but two steps when the fever that 
had mounted to his brain began to cool. 
And the wind—he paused. Was it speak¬ 
ing to him, that wild, midnight wind ? 


180 gtart of tho Woo &#. 

“ ‘ In the heart of the woods. 0 Love, 0 
Love!’ ” 

There was a shimmery glister of lightning 
among the shadowy growth. Was it a 
figure, the form of a woman beckoning him, 
guiding him ? He turned away from the 
midnight still, and followed that shimmery 
light, straight to the little graveyard in the 
woods, and fell across the little new mound 
there, and sobbed like a child that has 
rebelled and yielded. A presence breathed 
among the shadows; a presence that crept 
to his ‘bosom when he opened his arms, 
his face still pressed against the soft, new 
sod. A strange, sweet peace came to him, 
such as he had never felt before, fill¬ 
ing him with restful, chastened, and ex¬ 
quisite sadness. The storm passed by after 
awhile, and the rain fell softly—as the dew 
falls on flowers. And he arose and went 
home, with the chastened peace upon him, 
and the old passionate pain gone forever. 


Wxt gfnvt of the Woodisi, 


181 


But as the summers drifted by, year after 
year, he returned. He became a famil¬ 
iar comer to the humble mountain folk, 
where summer twilight times they saw him 
leaning on the parson’s little gate, convers¬ 
ing with the old man of the “ Promised 
Land ” toward which, as “ brethren,” they 
were travelling. Sometimes they talked of 
the blessed dead—the dear, dear dead who 
are permitted to return to give help to their 
loved ones. 

Aye, he believes it, knows it, for the old 
temptation assails him no more forever. 
That is enough to know. 

And in the heart of the woods in the dewy 
twilight, or at the solemn midnight, she 
comes to meet him, unseen but felt, and 
walks with him again along the way from 
Dan to Beersheba. He holds communion 
with her there, and is satisfied and strength¬ 
ened. 

God knows, God knows if it be true, she 


182 


m graft of the WooM. 

meets him there. But life is no longer 
agony and struggle with him. And often 
when he starts upon his lonely walks, he 
hears the wind pass through the ragged 
cedars with a low, tremulous soughing and 
bends his ear to listen. “ In the heart of 
the woods, 0 Love, 0 Love.” 

And he understands at last how to those 
passed on is vouchsafed a power denied the 
human helper, and that she who would have 
been his guide and comforter now gave him 
better guardianship—a watchful and a holy 
spirit. 

Meanwhile, the dead rest well. 


CHRISTMAS EVE AT THE CORNER 
GROCERY. 


The boss had not returned ; in truth, the 
probability was the boss would not return 
that night, inasmuch as he had generously 
offered the bookkeeper, who was clerk as 
well, permisson to go to his supper first. 
True, the subordinate had declined the 
honor; it being Christmas eve, Saturday 
night, close upon the heels of the new year, 
and the books of the establishment sadly in 
need of posting. The subordinate did not 
relish the prospect of a lonely Christmas, 
Sunday at that, on the tall stool behind the 
big desk among the cobwebs, mackerel and 
onion scents, sardine boxes, nail kegs, coils 

of barbed wire, soap-smelling cotton stuffs, 

183 



184 (&vt at ttu (&mm 6v0m*y. 

molasses and coal oil. So he gave up his 
supper, and the half-hour with the cripple 
(he sighed for the half-hour more than for 
the supper), contented himself with a bite of 
cheese and a cracker, which he forthwith 
entered upon the book, as he had been 
ordered to do, in a clear, clerical hand : 
“ To S. Riley , cheese and crackers , .07.” 
He wrote it in his best hand, to cover up the 
smallness of it, perhaps, for it was a very 
small entry. The subordinate’s face wore 
something very like a sneer as he made it, 
although he had the consolation of knowing 
the smallness of the transaction was upon 
the side of the creditor. 

It was a general kind of a store, was the 
grocery on the corner; a little out of the 
way, beyond the regular beat of the city 
folk, but convenient to the people of the 
suburbs. It wasn’t a mammoth concern, 
although its stock was varied. The boss, 
the real owner of the establishment, and 


t&xt at tHr totur 185 

Riley, the bookkeeper, ran it, without other 
help than that of black Ben, the porter. 

Riley was both bookkeeper, clerk, and, he 
sometimes suspected, general scapegoat to 
the proprietor. To-night he was left to 
attend to everything, for he knew the boss 
would not leave his warm hearth to trudge 
back through the snow to the little corner 
grocery that night. His daughter had come 
for him in a sleigh, and had carried him off, 
amid warm furs and the jingle of sleigh-bells, 
to a cheery Christmas eve with his family. 

The bookkeeper sighed as he munched his 
cheese. There was a little lame girl away 
up in the attic on Water Street that Riley 
called home. She would hear the sleigh- 
bells go by and peep down from her dingy 
little window, and clap her hands, and wish 
“ daddy would come home for Christmas, 
too.” There wasn’t any mother up there in 
the attic ; for out in the cemetery, in the 
portion allotted to the common people, the 


186 ^Jn*ijsitmaisi (&vt at the (teae* 

snow was falling softly on the little mother’s 
grave. 

The clerk ate his cheese in silence. Sud¬ 
denly he dropped his fist upon the desk heav¬ 
ily. “ Sometimes I wish she was out there 
with her mother,” he said. “ Sometimes 
I wish it, ’specially at Christmas times. Let 
me see: she is ten years old to-night; we 
called her our ‘ Christmas gift,’ and never 
a step have the little feet taken. Poor 
Julie ! poor little Christmas snowbird ! poor 
little Christmas sparrow ! I always think of 
her somehow when the boys go by in the 
holidays with a string of dead birds they’ve 
shot. Poor little daughter! ” 

He sighed, and took up his pen ; it was a 
busy season. A step caused him to look up ; 
then he arose and went to wait upon a cus¬ 
tomer. It was a woman, and Riley saw that 
she had been weeping. 

“ Howdy do, Mrs. Elkins,” he said. 
“ What can I do for you ? ” 


Chrtetmag (£vt at the Ctetwr Ctomy. 187 

“ I want to know the price of potatoes, 
Mr. Riley,” she replied. 

“ Sixty cents a bushel. How is the little 
boy to-night, Mrs. Elkins ? Is he getting 
well for Christmas ? ” 

u Yes,” said the woman. “ He’s a’ready 
well; well an’ happy. I fetched him to the 
graveyard this mornin\” 

Riley dropped the potato he had taken 
from the tub, and looked up to see the 
woman’s lip quiver. 

“ What’s the price o’ them potatoes ? ” 

“ Fifteen cents a peck.” 

She laid a silver dime upon the counter. 

“ Gimme them many,” she said; “ there’s 
four more lef’ to feed besides the dead one, 
though,” she added quickly, “ I—ain’t be¬ 
grudgin’ of ’em victuals.” 

Riley measured a peck of the potatoes, 
and emptied them into her basket. Four 
mouths besides her own, and one little starve¬ 
ling left that day, “ that blessed Christmas 


188 (ftlmtftMHg (&vt at thr (tearr <S>wmg. 

eve/’ in the graveyard. He found himself 
hoping, as he went back to the ledger, 
that they had buried the baby near his own 
dead. The big graveyard wouldn’t feel so 
desolate, so weirdly lonesome, as he thought 
it must, to the dead baby if the little child- 
mother, his young wife, could find it out 
there among all that array of the common 
dead. “ To S. Riley , 1-3 of peck of po¬ 
tatoes, .05.” The blue blotter had copied, or 
absorbed the entry, made it double, as if the 
debt had already begun to draw interest. 
The clerk, however, had not noticed the 
blotter; other customers came in and claimed 
his attention. They were impatient, too. 
It was a very busy night, and the books, he 
feared, would not be balanced after all. It 
was shabby, downright mean, of the boss 
not to come back at a time like this. 

The new customer was old man Murdock 
from across the river, the suburbs. He had 
once been rich, owned a house up town, and 


CMtvtetmng at ttor ©omw dtotwip 189 

belonged to the aristocracy. He had pos¬ 
sessed the appurtenances to wealth, such as 
influence, leisure, at one time. He still was 
a gentleman, since nature, not circumstance, 
had had the care of that. Every movement, 
every word, the very set of the threadbare 
broadcloth, spoke the proud, the u well- 
raised ” gentleman of the Old-South time. 
u Good evening, Mr. Riley,” he said, when 
the clerk stumbled down from his perch. 
The male customers—they learned it from 
the boss, doubtless—called him “ Riley.” 
They generally said, “ Hello, Riley.” 
But the old Southerner w r as neither rude 
nor so familiar. He said, “ Good-evening, 
Mr. Riley,” much the same as he would have 
said to the president, “ Good-evening, 

Mr.-” ; and he touched his long, white, 

scholarly-looking finger to the brim of his 
hat, though the hat was not lifted. Riley 
said, “ Good evening ” bach again , and 
wanted to know “ what Mr. Murdock would 



190 at the (tottn* 

look at.” He would have put the question 
in the same way had Mr. Murdock still pos¬ 
sessed his thousands; and he would have put 
it no less respectfully had the gentleman of 
fallen fortunes come a-begging. There is 
that about a gentleman commands respect; 
great Nature willed it so. 

The customer was not hurried; he re¬ 
marked upon the weather, and thawed him¬ 
self before the big stove (he never once 
broached the subject of Christmas, nor be¬ 
came at all familiar), pitied the homeless 
such a night, hoped it would freeze out 
the tariff upon wool; then he asked, care¬ 
lessly, as men of leisure might, “ What is 
the price of bacon, Mr. Riley ?—by the 
hundred.” 

“ Eight dollars a hundred, Mr. Murdock,” 
said Riley. 

The ex-millionaire slipped his white 
fore-finger into his vest pocket. After a 
moment’s silence, during which Riley knew 


<$hri$tma$ at the (toner Cftwrcry* 191 

the proud old heart was breaking, though 
the calm face gave no sign of the struggle, 
“Put me up a dime's worth of the bacon, if 
you please." 

Riley obeyed silently; he would no more 
have presumed to cover up the pathos of 
the proceeding by talk than he would have 
thought of offering a penny, in charity, to 
the mayor in the city. He put the transac¬ 
tion as purely upon a business footing as if 
the customer had ordered a round ton of 
something. He wrapped the meat in a 
sheet of brown paper, and received the 
stately “ Good evening, sir," saw the white 
finger touch the hat brim as the customer 
passed out into the snow, then climbed back 
to his perch, thinking, as he did so, that of 
all poverty the poverty that follows fallen 
fortunes must be the very hardest to endure. 
There is the battle against old longings, 
long-indulged luxuries, past pleasures, faded 
grandeurs, dead dreams, living sneers, and 


192 (6vt at tint (tenet* (Bwmtj. 


pride , that indomitable blessing, or curse, 
that never, never dies. God pity those poor 
who have seen better days! 

“ To S. Riley , 2 lbs. bacon , at 12 1-2 
cts., .25.” The book bore another entry. 
Riley put the blotter over it very quickly; 
he had a fancy the late customer was look¬ 
ing over his shoulder. He shouldn’t like 
the old gentleman to see that entry, not by 
any means. 

66 Chris’mus gif’, marster.” 

Another customer had entered. Riley 
closed the big ledger, and thrust it into the 
safe. The day-book would take up the 
balance of the evening. 

“ What can I do for you, Aunt Angie ? ” 
he said, going behind the counter to wait 
upon the old colored woman, who had passed 
the compliments of the season after the old 
slave custom. 

She laughed, albeit her clothing was in 
rags, and the thin shawl gathered about her 


^hvtetmujs t&n at the (toner $twerg. 193 

shoulders bore patches in blue and yellow 
and white. 

“ I cotched yer Chris’mus gif’, good mar- 
ster; yer knows I did.” 

“ But you’re a little early, Aunt Angie,” 
said the clerk; “ this is only Christmas 

eve.” 

“ Aw, git out, marster. De ole nigger 
got ter cook all day ter-morrer—big Chris-’ 
mus dinner fur de whi’ folks. No res’ fur 
de ole nigger, not even et Chris’mus. Bress 
de Lord, it ain’ come but onc’t a year.” 

She laughed again, but under the strange 
merriment Riley detected the weariness that 
was thankful; aye, that thanked God that 
Christmas, the holiday of the Christ-child, 
came “but once a year.” 

Christmas! Christmas! old season of 
mirth and misery ! Who really enjoys it, 
after all ? Lazarus in the gutter, or Dives 
among his coffers ? 

The clerk ran his eye along the counters, 
13 


194 <&vc at the Kornev (Swmtj. 

the shelves, and even took in the big barrels, 
pushed back, in the rear, out of the way. 

“ Well, Aunt Angie, what shall the ‘ gift ’ 
be?” 

He could see the bare toes where her 
torn old shoes fell away from the stocking¬ 
less feet. She needed shoes; he was about 
to go for a pair when she stopped him by a 
gesture. 

“ Dem ar things, marster,” she said, point¬ 
ing to a string of masks—gaudy, hideous 
things, festooned from the ceiling. “ I 
wants one o’ dem ar. De chillun 11 lack 
dat sho.” 

He allowed her to select one ; it was the 
face of a king, fat, jovial, white . She en¬ 
joyed it like a child. Then, unwrapping a 
bit of soiled muslin, she took from it three 
pieces of silver, three bright, precious dol¬ 
lars. They represented precisely three- 
fourths of her month’s wages. She pur¬ 
chased a tin horn “ fur de baby, honey ” ; a 


€vc at the (Sweeny 195 

candy sheep “ fur Eplium, de naix un ” ; a 
string of yellow beads “ fur Jinny. Dat 
yaller gal ain’ got no reason-mint she am 
dat set on habin’ dem beads ” ; a plug of 
tobacco “ fur de old man’s Chris’mus ”; a 
jew’s-harp “fur Sam; dat chile gwi’ Tarn 
music, he am ” ; a doll “ fur Lill Ria; she’s 
de po’ly one, Lill Ria am ”; and last, “ a 
dust ob corn meal ter make a hoe-cake fur 
dey-all’s Chris’mus dinner.” 

She had been lavish, poor beggar; with¬ 
out stint she had given her all ; foolishly, 
perhaps, but she apologized in full for the 
folly : “ It am Chris’mus, marster.” 

Aye, Christmas ! wear your masks, poor 
souls; fancy that you are kings, kings. 
Dream that pain is a myth and poverty a 
joke. Make grief a phantom. Set red folly 
in the seat of grim doubt, pay your devoirs 
one day ! To-morrow the curtain rises on 
the old scene ; the wheels grind on; the 
chariots of the rich roll by, and your throat 


196 ©httettw at the Ctencv torrnp 

is choked with their dust ; your day is over. 

The clerk made his entry in the day-book, 
“ To 8. Riley , one mask ,. 20,” before he 
waited upon three newsboys who were tap¬ 
ping the floor with their boot heels, just in 
front of the counter. 

The largest of the trio took the role of 
spokesman :— 

“ I want a pack o’ firecrackers, Mister; 
an’ Jim wants one, an’ so does Harry. Can’t 
we have ’em all for ten cents ? ” 

The clerk thrust his pen behind his ear. 

“ They are five cents a pack,” he said. 

“ Can’t you come down on three packs ? 
They do up town, an’ we ain’t got another 
nickel.” 

Riley read the keen interest of the trans¬ 
action in the faces before him. But he had 
orders. “ Couldn’t do it, boys, sorry.” 

“Well, then,”—but a half sigh said it 
wasn’t “well,”—“give us gum. We can 
divide that up anyhows.” 


Chftettw at the Catnee tracery* 197 

It was a poor compromise—a very poor 
compromise. The face, the very voice, of 
the little beggar expressed contempt. Riley 
hesitated. u Pshaw ! ” said he, u Christmas 
without a racket is just no Christmas to a 
boy. I know, for I’ve been a boy, too. 
And it only comes once a year. Here, boys, 
take the three packs for ten cents, and run 
along and enjoy yourselves.” 

And as they scampered out, he sighed, 
thinking of two poor little feet that could 
never throw off their weight and run, as 
only childhood runs, not even at the Christ¬ 
mas time. 

“ To S. Riley , 1 pack of firecrackers, .05.” 

Then it was the clerk took himself to task. 
He was a poor man on a small salary. He 
had a little girl to look after, a cripple, who 
would never be able to provide for herself, 
and for whom, in consequence, some one else 
must provide. She would expect a little 
something for Christmas, too. And the good 


198 (&n at the Cornet* Cmmuj. 

neighbor in the attic who kept an eye on the 
little one while Riley was at work—he must 
remember her. It was so pleasant to give he 
wondered how a man with a full pocket must 
feel when he came face to face with suffer¬ 
ing. God! if he could feel so once! just 
once have his pockets full ! But he would 
never be rich; the boss had told him so often : 
he didn’t know the value of a dollar. The 
head of the establishment would think so, 
verily, when he glanced over the night’s 
entries in the day-book. 

“ Oh, well, Christmas comes but once a 
year! ” he said, smiling, as he adopted the 
universal excuse. 

Some one came in and he went forward 
again. 

“ No, he didn’t keep liquor; he was out¬ 
side the corporation line and came under the 
four-mile restriction.” 

“ Just a Chris’mus toddy,” said the cus¬ 
tomer that might have been. “ Don’ drink 


(tfhrbtma# at the i&ovntx akoccnj. 199 

regular. Sober’s anybody all th’ year, cep— 
Cliris’mus. Clms’mus don’t come—don’t 
come but once—year.” 

He staggered out, and Riley stepped to 
the door to watch him reel safely beyond 
the boss’s big glass window. 

There was another figure occupying the 
sheltered nook about the window. Riley dis¬ 
covered the pale, pinched little face pressed 
against the pane before he opened the door. 
The little waif was so utterly lost in wonder 
of the Christmas display set forth behind the 
big panes, that he did not hear the door 
open or know that he was observed until the 
clerk’s voice recalled his wandering senses. 

“ See here, sonny, you are marring the 
glass with your breath. There will be ice 
on that pane in less than ten minutes.” 

The culprit started, and almost lost his 
balance as he grasped at a little wooden 
crutch that slipped from his numb fingers and 
rolled down upon the pavement. 


200 (SMjStmaai (&u at the (toner (Swccrg. 

“ Hello ! ” The clerk stepped out into 
the night and rescued the poor prop. 

Humanity ! Humanity! When all is 
told, thy great heart still is master. 

u Go in there,” the clerk pointed to the 
door, “ and warm yourself at the fire. It is 
Christmas ; all the world should be warm at 
Christmas.” 

The waif said nothing; it was enough to 
creep near to the great stove and watch the 
Christmas display from his warm, safe corner. 

“ There’s that in the sound of a child’s 
crutch strikes away down to my boots,” the 
clerk told himself as he made an entry after 
the boy had left the store. “ Whenever I 
hear one I- Hello ! what is it, sissy ? ” 

A little girl stood at the counter. A flaxen¬ 
haired, blue-eyed little maiden ; alone, at 
night, and beautiful. Growing up for what ? 

Crippled feet, at all events, are not swift 
to run astray. The clerk sighed. The Christ¬ 
mas eve was full of shadows; shadows that 



(&vt at the Kornev Grocery. 201 

would be lost in the garish day of the mor¬ 
row. He leaned upon the counter. u What 
do you want, little one ? ” 

“ Bread.” 

Only a beggar understands that trick of 
asking simple bread . Ah, well! Christ¬ 
mas must have its starvelings, too ! The big 
blotter lingered upon the last entry. And 
when he did remove it to go and wait upon 
some new customers he quieted the voice of 
prudence with the reflection that his own 
wee one might stand at a bread counter some 
pitiless Christmas eve, and this loaf, sent upon 
the waters of mercy, might come floating 
back ; who could tell since,—and the clerk 
smiled,— 

“ ‘ The world goes ’round and 'round ; 

Some go up , and some go down' " 

The counter was crowded ; it was nearing 
the hour for closing, and business was grow¬ 
ing brisk. And some of the customers were 
provokingly slow, some of the poorer ones 


202 ©tofatmajei at t\w (totter tomnj. 

keeping the richer ones waiting. It isn’t 
difficult to buy when there is no fear of the 
funds running short. There was one who 
bought oysters, fruit, and macaroni, ten dol¬ 
lars, all told, in less than half the time another 
was dividing twenty-live cents into a possible 
purchase of a bit of cheese, a strip of bacon, 
and a handful of dry beans. And old Mrs. 
Mottles, the shop-girls’ landlady at the big 
yellow tenement, up town a bit, took a full 
twenty minutes hunting over cheap bits of 
steak, stale bread, and a roast that “ ought 
to go mighty low, seeing it was toler’ble tough 
and some gristly.” Riley was pretty well 
tired out when the last one left the store. 
He glanced at the clock: eleven-ten; he had 
permission to close at eleven, and it was ten 
minutes past. 

He went out and put up the shutters, came 
hack, and began putting away the hooks. 

The big ledger had scarcely been touched ; 
he had been too busy to jwst that night. 


(fhvtettmcs (&vt at the (£muv townj. 203 

“ Mr. Riley? Mr. Riley? Just a minute 
before you close up, Mr. Riley.” 

He went back to the counter, impatiently; 
he was very tired. A woman with a baby 
in her arms stood there waiting. 

“ I am late,” she said, “ a’most too late. 
I want a bite for to-morrow. Give me what 
will go farthest for that.” 

She laid a silver quarter upon the counter. 

“ How many of you ? ” said Riley. “ It 
might make a lunch for one-” 

The woman shook her head. 

“ A drunkard counts for one when it comes 
to eatin’, anyhows,” she said, and laughed— 
a hard, bitter laugh. “He counts for some¬ 
thin’ when he’s drunk,” she went on, the 
poor tongue made free by misery that would 
repent itself on the morrow. “ May be man, 
brute likely. I’ve got the proofs o’ it.” 

She set the child upon the counter and 
pushed back her sleeve, glanced a moment at 
a long, black bruise that reached from wrist 



204 $h¥i0tma0 <&xt at the (&mtx <$ramg. 

to elbow, then quickly lowered the sleeve 
again. 

“ Give me somethin’ to eat, Mr. Riley, for 
the sake o’ your own wife, sir,—an’ the 
Christmas.” 

His own wife ! Why, she was safe ; safe 
forever from misery like that. He almost 
shrieked it to the big blue blotter. And then 
he looked to see what he had written. He 
almost trembled, lest in his agony he had 
entered upon the master’s well-ordered book 
his thought: “ Safe ! Elizabeth Riley under 
the snow — Christmas he had written it 
somewhere , upon his heart, perhaps, but 
surely somewhere. The entry in the boss’s 
book was all right; it read a trifle extrava¬ 
gantly, however:— 


To S. Riley.Dr. 

1 shoulder, 10 lbs. @ 10 cents . . $ 1 00 

2 lbs. coffee @ 30 cents.60 

2 lbs. sugar @ 12£ cents.25 

3 doz. eggs @ 15 cents.45 


©hvtetma 0 €ve at the (totter Cftwrerg. 205 

“ For the sake of the dead wife,” he told 
the blue blotter,—“ the dead wife and the 
Christmas time.” Then he thrust the book 
into the safe, turned the combination, looked 
into the stove, lowered the gas, and went 
home. 

Home to the little attic and the crippled 
nestling. She was asleep, but a tiny red 
stocking, worn at the heel, though thor¬ 
oughly clean, hung beside the chimney. 

He tiptoed to the bed, and looked down 
at the little sleeper. There was a smile upon 
the baby lips, as if in dreams the little feet 
were made straight, and were skipping 
through sunny meadows, while their owner’s 
hand was clasped fast in the hand of the hero 
of all childish adoration,— the mythical, magi¬ 
cal Santa Claus. 

The little hands were indeed clasped 
tightly upon a bit of cardboard that peeped 
from beneath the delicate fingers, upon the 
breast of the innocent sleeper. Riley drew 


206 (&vt at the (toner (Srarery 

it gently away. It was a Christmas card the 
neighbor-woman had picked up in some home 
of the rich where she had gone that day to 
carry home some sewing. It bore a face of 
Christ, and a multitude, eager, questioning; 
and underneath a text:— 

“ Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of 
these, my brethren, ye did it unto me.” 

He sighed, thinking of the hungry horde, 
the fainting multitude at the grocery that 
Christmas eve. 

His heart had ached for them; he un¬ 
derstood so well what it was to be wretched, 
lonely, hungry. Not one of those he had 
helped had thanked him, in words; not one 
had wished him a Merry Christmas. Yet, 
for what he had done, because of it, the 
little red stocking by the chimney-place 
would be half empty. He hadn’t missed 
their thanks, poor starvelings, and to say 
“ Merry Christmas,” would have been to 


<SM0tma0 at fit* (&ovm (ftvarmj. 207 

mock. Yet he fancied a smile touched for 
an instant the lips of the pale Nazarene, 
those lips said to have never smiled, as he 
slipped the card to its place under the wee 
hands folded upon the child’s heart. 

And after a little while he was lying by 
her side, too tired to sleep, thinking of the 
unbalanced ledger and the books that must 
be posted before the year should end. 

At last he slept. But the big ledger re¬ 
fused to leave him; even in dreams it fol¬ 
lowed to annoy, and drag him back to 
the little suburban grocery. And when he 
unlocked the safe and took it out, lo ! he was 
surrounded by a host of beggars : boys with¬ 
out money wanting firecrackers ; women 
with starving babies in their arms; little 
girls crying for bread; old men, young 
men, white, black,—all the beggars of the 
big round world. They seized the boss’s big 
book and began to scribble in it, until a 
little girl with a crutch began to beat them 


208 (Olmgtmatf (Bvt at the (tonet* (^vocenj. 

off. And when they were gone he could 
still hear the noise of them—a mighty rustle 
of wings ; and he saw that they had gathered 
all about him, in the air; and they no longer 
begged,—they laughed. And there was one 
who wore a mask ; and when it was removed 
he saw the face of Christ. 

Then he took back his old ledger, and lo ! 
upon the credit side where the balance was 
not made, a text had been entered. It filled 
the page down to the bottom line :— 

“ Inasmuch as ye did it unto the least of these, 
ye did it unto me.” 

And full across the page, as plain as if it 
had been in blood, ran the long red lines 
that showed the sheet was balanced. 


The End. 









II. The Relation of the Teaching of Jesus to 

Social Problems To=Day. 

A series of papers by Professor George D. Herron, the 
Savonarola of Orthodox Protestantism. 

III. Mexico, Past and Present. 

By Justice Walter Clark, LL.D., of the Supreme Bench 
of North Carolina. Justice Clark will visit Mexico ex- 
pressly for the purpose of preparing these papers for 
the Arena. They will be magnificently illustrated. 

IV. Natural Monopolies and the People. 

A series of papers discussing these problems by the 
ablest specialists of our time. 


V. Exhaustive Bibliographies of Vital Social 
and Economic Problems. 

Of incalculable value to students of live issues. The 
three first of these will deal with the Land Question, 
Socialism, and Swiss Innovations. 


VI. Woman’s Enfranchisement. 

Discussed by the ablest thinkers interested in this great 
movement. 

VII. Representative Women on Social, Econo= 

mic, and Educational Problems. 

A series of papers of special value to thinking people of 
the New Time. 

VIII. Thrilling Passages and Great Social, 

Economic, and Political Crises 

In the history of America and England during the past 
century. 

IX. The New Psychology: Physical Science, 

and Studies in Occultism. 

In this department we have the promise of a series of 
papers of special interest on Man and His Relation 
to the Solar System as a Subject for Natural 
Inquiry and Scientific Research, by J. Heber 
Smith, M. D., of Boston. 


X. Wellsprings of Life. 

Including, The Power of the Imagination and the Im 
portance of High Ideals, The Redemptive Power of Love. 
True Education and What It Can Accomplish, How En¬ 
lightened Society Should Treat Criminals. 

XI. The Battle for Higher Morality. 

A series of strong papers dealing with the great well- 
springs of immorality and degradation. 

XII. Educational, Ethical, and Religious Prob= 

lems. 

Treated by leading thinkers in a broad and masterly 
manner. 

XIII. Fiction. A Brilliant Novel by Will Allen 

Dromgoole. 

A novel of great interest and strength opens in the De¬ 
cember Arena, entitled “The Valley Path,” a story of 
Tennessee. It will run for the first half of the year. 
There will also be charming short stories and sketches 
in each number, which will interest all members of the 
families into which the Arena goes. 

XIV. Illustrations. 

The portraits of eminent thinkers, with their autographs’ 
which have proved such a popular feature of this review 
in the past, will be rendered especially attractive in the 
future, as our arrangements are such that the pictures 
will be executed with superior excellence, and they will 
prove a feature of great interest to all our readers. In 
addition to these portraits and autographs, we have ar¬ 
ranged for one handsomely illustrated paper for each 
issue of the Arena. 


From Five Dollars to THREE Dollars. 


Beginning with our December issue, the price of the 
ARENA will be reduced from $5.00 to $3.00. 

Send lo cents for sample copy of Arena and our 
Prospectus for I 896 . 

ARENA PUBLISHING CO. 

Copley Square, Boston. 



Some Admirable Novels by Southern 

Writers, Depicting Southern Life. 


Born in the Whirlwind. 

By Rev. William Adams, D.D. The plan of the work is 
admirable, sometimes even bold and striking, its plot 
ingenious and well sustained, its tone lofty and pure, its 
motive and moral suited to stimulate lofty aspirations 
and to make duplicity and revenge hateful in our eyes. 
The style, moreover, is very fine.— Christian Observer, 
Louisville, Ky. Cloth, $1.25; paper, 50 cents. 

Redbank. 

By M. L. Cowles. This book abounds in delightful de¬ 
scriptions of old Southern “ dining-days,” of free, joyous 
rides through the pines, of child-life on the plantation — 
of all things, in short, that make up the real South, 
known only to the Southerner and never portrayed more 
faithfully, more graphically, more charmingly, than by 
Mrs. Cowles. Mrs. Cowles is a fairer representative of 
Southern culture, a far better exponent of Southern feel¬ 
ing and customs, than some other writers of that section. 
All Southerners who feel an interest in the authors of the 
South, all Northerners who desire to obtain an insight 
into real Southern life, should read this valuable and 
thoroughly delightful novel.— Public Opinion, New 
York. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cents. 

A Mute Confessor. 

By Will N. Harben. A stirring romance of a Southern 
town. 

Full of beauty and strength combined; an ideal union.— 
Boston Ideas. 

If knowledge and insight and the flawless taste of the 
artist can make a popular novel,‘‘A Mute Confessor” 
will be one of the season’s literary successes.— New York 
Home Journal. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cents. 

David and Abigail. 

By B. F. Sawyer. “David and Abigail” is, notwith¬ 
standing its biblical title, a story of modern days. It is a 
wholesome story; it will be read around the evening 
lamp. Men will smile, women may cry; all will be 
better for the reading. Cloth, $1.25; paper, 50 cents. 

ARENA PUBLISHING CO. 

Pierce Building. Copley Square, BOSTON, Mass. 






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